Easy Sunday Cities

[This is chapter one of a four-chapter finished novella, which will complete posting by the end of the second week in June 2021.]

New York

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you walking the runway at one of these shows before.”

Gene Worth looked over at the man adjusting something on the standing frame of the floodlight as the last of the gawkers were clearing out of the Studio D room of Punto on New York’s West 38th Street. There was nothing not to like about the guy, who was maybe in his late thirties, Hispanic, muscular, easy on the eyes, attentive to his business, and full of self-confidence. Gene couldn’t help to have seen that the guy had been attentive to him as well as he walked the long, raised platform strip down the center of the room in the House of Havlos young men’s fashions show. He’d been particularly attentive when Gene was modeling a “barely there” swimsuit with sandals and a pool jacket he’d slipped off half way down the room and flipped casually over his shoulder.

“No, you haven’t. This was my first gig here,” Gene answered.

“Manny Rodriguez, here,” the Hispanic muscleman said, holding his hand out and flashing Gene a smile. “Manny’s New Yorkese for Manuel. If you do more shows—and I’m sure you will, because you were a knockout in this one—you’ll see me around a lot.”

Gene took the hand. He couldn’t very well not do so without being impolite, and he had had the urge to touch the man from the time they’d first locked eyes anyway. It was Sunday, his “easy” day. And the fashion show had put him in heat. The gawkers had been very close to the walkers all the way down the long aisle and Gene had caught many a look from a Class A looker—both female and male—that undressed him and messed with him. He couldn’t help but feel stroked sexually by that. There was no doubt he’d do more runway work if he could get it.

And it was Sunday.

Manny held his hand for a few beats longer than necessary and folded a thumb under between their palms and stroked Gene’s palm with it a few times before letting the hand go. Gene recognized the universal signal between gay men. Gene wasn’t exactly gay; he went with both women and men, but he’d gone with enough men to recognize and appreciate the signal. The signal not only announced “gay,” but since Manny had taken the initiative, it announced “top” as well—a top in search of a bottom.

Gene looked into Manny’s eyes and smiled. He dipped his head slightly, and he heard Manny take his breath in. The smile was a “me too” on being gay, and the head dip was a signal of submission—putting the two together as he had done meant “I’m available and I’m available to you.” Just like that, the playing field had been established.

“I didn’t get lunch because of the setup required for the show,” Manny said, looking directly at Gene and signaling that it wasn’t just lunch he was talking about. “I think I saw you here early too. Interested in going to get something to eat with me? My treat.”

“Why not, it’s Sunday,” Gene answered.

Manny gave him a quizzical look, but he didn’t ask. He was getting what he wanted. The cute little piece was going to go with him and Manny was going to fuck him. The gorgeous little male model was being easy—far easier than Manny had anticipated he would be.

“And then maybe—” he started to say.

“Sure, why not, it’s Sunday,” Gene said again. This was met with another quizzical look from Manny but the cutie was saying yes to everything he suggested so far, so he wasn’t going to get into an analysis of what was running smoothly.

Manny had said he knew where there was a cheap café nearby that served reasonably good food, if that was OK with Gene. “I don’t live far from here,” he said, looking pointedly at Gene. “But I don’t want to come across as cheap or anything, if you’re used to something fancier than burgers.”

“I’m not used to fancy, no. I’m a student and on my own.”

“Not high school, I hope,” Manny said with the hint of a nervous laugh. He flashed that meaningful “just checking” look again.

“No. I’m finishing up college—a year early—and am starting in a graduate program. I’m twenty-one.”

“Good. I mean it’s good that you’re getting an education. I didn’t have the interest to go beyond high school, but I’ve sure learned the lighting business the ‘just do it’ way.”

“Yeah, I watched you. I could tell you knew what you were doing.”

“I know what I’m doing about a lot of things,” Manny said with a slight smile. He checked Gene’s face to see if the double entendre had struck home and saw that it had. God, he wondered, how could a guy this good looking be this easy?

They had walked as they talked and it wasn’t long before they were seated in the café. Gene indeed seemed satisfied with the food and he didn’t balk either at Manny’s being expressive and aggressive with his hands, touching Gene on the forearm and shoulder and knee and thigh as they talked. Gene racked it up to hot Latin blood. The hot Latin he was eating with heated him up too. Manny knew, though, it was because he could hardly contain his need to fuck the gorgeous young man.

“You say this was your first modeling gig and you’re finishing up college?” Manny said. He obviously was digging for more information. “A college here in New York? And how did you get signed up for modeling? You walked the catwalk like a seasoned pro.” That modeling style had been what had made Manny think this hunt was going to be difficult. Gene had the “ice maiden/I’m just an automated dressing mannequin” look professional models maintain on the runway down pat.

“They trained me for that in college,” Gene said. “I’m up from Philadelphia just for the weekend, but I’ll have to move here. I’ve got a job signed up with this fashion house if I did well enough today—”

“You did great today,” Manny interjected.

“Thanks,” Gene said, flashing Manny a smile, and continuing. “And I start at Columbia in graduate school creative writing next month. I’ll need to find someplace to live here in the next couple of weeks. I’ve been going to the Philadelphia School of the Arts. They cover performing arts as well as fine arts and writing. I guess you can say I’ve had a smattering of training in several areas of the arts. Dancing and specific courses in modeling helped me get this job. I need to work while I’m at Columbia.”

Gene had rested his forearm on the café table and Manny was running his fingers lightly up and down the skin of the young man’s inner arms. God, this is easy, Manny thought again, not quite believing his luck. Gene wasn’t pulling away from him.

“So, you have to go back to Philadelphia today?” he asked.

“There’s a train tonight,” Gene said. “I don’t have any classes tomorrow.”

“Maybe I can walk you.”

“I think I can find Penn Station by myself,” Gene said, with a smile.

“I wasn’t thinking of walking you to Penn Station. I was thinking of walking you to my place. I live just over in Hells Kitchen from here, near 52nd and 9th Avenue.”

“I’m glad that’s what you meant,” Gene said, with a smile.

“You know what I’m saying, though.” This seemed too easy. Manny wanted to pin it down.

“You’re saying you want to fuck me. I’m saying yes.”

* * * *

Gene was lying on the bed on his back, his eyes wide open and watering, his arms held over his head by Manny’s strong grip on his wrists. Gene’s fingers were wrapped around the rungs of the brass headboard. Manny straddled his chest, leaning over him, feeding his thick cock into Gene’s mouth. Gene was writhing under him, gagging and groaning, not having been prepared for a cock as big as Manny’s. But Manny relentlessly face fucked him, his cock engorging until he had come close to exploding. He didn’t want to do that yet.

He released the young man’s wrists, but Gene left his hands in place, gripping the rungs of the brass headboard as Manny moved down his body to where he was straddling Gene’s thighs. He brought their cock heads together, his uncut and Gene’s cut. He docked the cocks, pressing the bulbs together, pulling his foreskin over Gene’s bulb, and stroked the cocks together as Gene moaned, arched his back and started to move his hips in the rhythm of the fuck.

Now. Now, Gene was thinking. He was going to put it in him now and take him to heaven. “Now. Do it now,” he murmured to egg the man on.

Easy was one thing. That didn’t mean it had to be fast—that Manny couldn’t savor the conquest, couldn’t squeeze all of the pleasure he could get out of it before carving the notch in his bedpost. He continued docking the cocks.

It was Manny who dock fucked a release out of his captive first, pulling an ejaculation out of an overwhelmed Gene, not having experienced docking before, and laughing as Gene shuddered, jerked, and slathered both cockheads with his cum, which burbled out underneath the covering foreskin and dripped down Gene’s shaft. The gorgeous little piece might be easy, but he was fresh. He hadn’t become a jaded bottom yet.

Gene lay there, panting and moaning as Manny moved further down, placing his feet on the floor at the foot of the bed, and pulled Gene down to where his buttocks rested on the bottom edge of the mattress. Gene lost his grip on the headboard and reached down and ran his fingers into the hair on the back of Manny’s head, holding Manny close into him, as the older man swallowed Gene’s cock and eventually moved down and ate out his ass, opening him up to the thrust of the cock.

Gene lay there, wide-eyed and seemingly helpless, holding his legs raised and spread as Manny stood between his thighs, rolled on a condom, and spritzed his cock and Gene’s hole with lube.

“Now. Do it now,” Gene murmured again.

Manny laughed. And then he was thrusting inside Gene’s passage, deep, and immediately setting up a rhythm of the fuck that had Gene howling and writhing under him, clutching Manny’s shoulders, digging in his fingernails there, and setting his own hips in a frenzied countermotion of pain-pleasure and moving up the scale of ecstasy.

Manny fucked him for a while in the missionary position and then flipped him over on the bed, covered him close from above, and fucked him in a doggie position, rising off his back, grabbing Gene’s wrists, and arching him back as he thrust hard up into his passage. He finished the young model in a wheelbarrow position, sitting on the foot of the bed, with Gene’s body cantilevered out from him. Gene’s fists were buried in the carpet and his legs were wrapped around Manny’s waist. Manny pulled the younger man’s passage on and off the cock, on and off the cock.

“You’re such a slut for it,” Manny said afterward as he sat, naked, on the bed and watched Gene dress. Manny wasn’t going to walk the young model to Penn Station. He’d gotten what he wanted. He did tell Gene where the nearest subway stop was.

“Yeah, well, it’s Sunday. I’m prim and proper on the weekdays,” Gene answered.

“I could tell that it was still exciting for you, that you were hungry for it. You said you need to find a living situation—a roommate with an apartment, I trust.”

“Yeah, I haven’t decided whether I need to be close to Columbia, where I’ll be studying, or down here in the garment district, where I’ll have to work. The woman at the House of Havlos said I might be called on short order and if I can’t show up right away I might lose the job. It’s a long ride from Columbia.”

“There’s a Web site you could try to help you find a living arrangement,” Manny said, writing the URL down on a slip of paper and handing it to Gene. “You were a good lay. I’m glad we met on a Sunday.”

“I’m glad too,” Gene said. “You’re a bit scary and intense, but I really got my rocks off, which is what I wanted.” And then, fully dressed again, he left.

Back in Philadelphia the next day and without a class to go to, Gene went up on the Internet to check out the Web site Manny had told him about. It was obviously a gay male hookup site, concentrated on New York City. It did include a bulletin board on roommates and apartments, though. He found what appeared to be the ideal match for his needs in living accommodations in New York.

“Share near the garment district,” it said, “One dominant, totally in-shape thirty-two-year-old seeking one small, slim sub. Cost depending on the quality and frequency of servicing.” Pretty straightforward and boldly worded, Gene thought. But, depending on what this thirty-two-year-old dominant seeker looked like, it could be ideal. The thought of a discounted rent was very appealing, and Gene had already decided he would need to be close to the garment district, at least until his modeling reputation grew to where his needs would be accommodated.

He messaged the e-mail address and set up a meet on the steps of the New York Public Library, facing Bryant Park, for the next Sunday afternoon.

Of course the New York apartment was the one he’d been in already the previous Sunday, the thirty-two-year-old dominator was Manny Rodriguez, and the bed Manny fucked him on and was advertising to use was the same one he’d been fucked on the week before.

“Your share of the rent would be $600 a month,” Manny said. “But it would be discounted each time you took my cock during that month. Deal?”

That would be no more than twelve times a month to live close to the garment district rent free, Gene quickly calculated.

“Deal,” he said.

“First hundred dollars discounted today,” Manny said. “Fifty dollars for the fuck we just did and fifty for the one I’m now going to take.”

Gene groaned as Manny rolled over on top of him again, but he opened his legs to the man and took the thrust of the cock deep.

It was Sunday.

* * * *

Sunday in the park. Central Park that was. Gene picked it because it was close to a lot of high-end hotels, ones where out-of-town businessmen checked into in anticipation of early morning meetings on Monday. There always were businessmen who liked to let loose when they were in New York and out of the clutches of their suburban lives, with a wife, two-and-a-half children, a dog, and a cat. And there were men who liked to indulge in entirely different preferences than the life they lived in public when they were in a large, impersonal town like New York. The Las Vegas “What plays in Vegas, stays in Vegas” creed applied to other large cities as well.

The runway gigs weren’t coming fast enough yet, the costs of starting up a graduate program were high, and Manny wasn’t so demanding that there wasn’t some rent to pay. It was Sunday. Gene was making ends meet—at least temporarily, he hoped—by turning a trick or two in the park on Sunday.

It hadn’t been hard. He was a real looker, moved like a dancer, and looked young, fresh, and vulnerable. Mostly alI he had to do was sit on a bench not far from a drinks truck near the edge of Central Park. He could count on a seeking businessman to come along and maybe pass him three times, giving him increasingly meaningful smiles until Gene gave a shy smile, widened his stance, let his hand glide down in front of his basket for the brief moment the mark was passing, and dip his head. That was usually all he need do to acquire interested company. He could be discriminating. He could signal availability only to men he could see himself going with. Being in the fashion business, he was more interested in the quality and apparent expense of the clothes than in the man’s physique, although that had to be acceptable too.

He probably was willing to go with someone older and heftier then most, though—if he had good and expensive taste in clothing. He reasoned that a man with money was best for a one-time Sunday trick than a pretty boy who you’d normally ball for free—and likely would expect you to this time as well.

On this Sunday, the man was expensively dressed, he was a bit jowly and thick around the middle, and he was on the dark side of fifty, but he turned out to be quite satisfactory. He had a great hotel room, a fat wallet, and a thick cock, and he knew how to make best use of all of that.

He bent Gene over an expansive bed beside a full-length and width window overlooking the park, covered him from behind and above and rode Gene’s ass like the winning jockey at Belmont with a demanding, beer can-category cock. Gene’s cries of pain-pleasure—more genuine than was often the case—were muffled by his silk briefs stuffed in his mouth, and the john let Gene clutch the $300 fee in his hand while he was pounding his ass. Coming into the home stretch, the man moved Gene to his back, and finished him in a raised-hips missionary position. There was a mirrored wall on the other side of the bed, and Gene was able to admire his lithe, stretched-out body, with his pelvis raised and the man’s cock moving in and out of his ass for the finale.

Gene was walking gingerly, but steeped in satisfaction, when he returned to the apartment. He normally would have been playing the street until dark, but the hefty jockey had ridden and paid him well, adding a fifty-dollar tip, and he was home earlier than usual.

He had returned earlier than Manny had expected him. The naked man sitting on Manny’s bed with two light towers pointed at him from across the room wasn’t what Gene expected Manny would be bringing home. He was a black bull—muscular and hung. It was doubtful he was a bottom and Manny had shown no indication that he played defense as well as offense.

The black bull gave Gene a look like he could eat him alive when Gene entered the room with a questioning look on his face.

“You’re home early,” Manny said. He was standing at one of the light towers, adjusting something. A video camera rested on the floor by his feet. “Maybe that’s a good thing,” he added.

“I got lucky early,” Gene answered. “What’s all this then? And why might my coming home early be a good thing?”

“We were going to film a movie here,” Manny said. “The bottom called and canceled. I haven’t been able to find a replacement. I was going to have to film a solo jerk-off scene.”

“And, so, what does that mean?” Gene asked.

The black bull fucked the stuffing out of Gene for the movie, forcing the small-stature model to kneel to him and gag on his massive cock and then threw him on the bed, raised him to all fours, mounted him, stuffed his ass, and rode him and rode him and rode him. All of this was done under the lights and to the whir of the video camera held by Manny as he circled the room taking the shot at the best angle of the moment.

It turned out that their apartment was also a studio for gay male porn videos and Gene wasn’t aware of that that until one of the actors had failed to appear for that day’s shoot and Gene got home earlier than anticipated. Gene agreed to stand in—or, rather, lie in with his legs open—when he found out that he’d earn a flat $500 up front and another $500 when and if a porn site bought the film. It was a coupling randy men salivated over—a black bull conquering a sweet young thing—so Manny convinced Gene it would be a sure $1,000.

Gene needed the money, and it was Sunday.

Later, as he was editing the film, Manny said, “This is a sure winner . . .” which it proved to be. “We’ll need a stage name for you to put in the trailer and to pimp to the porn sites.”

“How about Will Belayed?” Gene shot back flippantly.

“Great. Done,” Manny answered and burned the name into the film credits.

* * * *

It was on a Sunday in Central Park that Gene realized that Victor Macek, a man Gene had come to worship enough that he was researching the Serbian nationalist movement to take a shot at writing a romantic adventure novel featuring Macek, was a gay boy shopper. Gene had been working the park long enough to know most of the other young men who did the same. Gene had developed a nodding acquaintance with a young guy near his own age, Alonzo, who was a “back of the front line” sometimes dancer in Broadway shows and who made ends meet much the same way Gene was doing in working Central Park.

That Sunday Gene was walking into the park when he realized he was walking a good distance behind one of his night class visiting lecturers at Columbia, the novelist and Serbian nationalist Victor Macek. The man taught political novel writing at Columbia, and Gene had become entranced not only with how hunky the man was in person but also how dangerously and romantically adventuresome were the events he wrote about in the breakup of Eastern Europe and the sectarian infighting there. He was a rugged, thuggish, hard-used-looking man, probably in his early, experienced forties, who was ugly and handsome at the same time. His battle scars showed on his face and his muscular body was powerfully built and, in addition to imagining writhing under him, Gene could fantasize about tracing the scars of other wounds on his body while being taxed with what he was sure was a thick cock in his passage.

Gene was highly sexed enough to gauge each man he met as a possible lover. His political novel class professor at Columbia ranked high on Gene’s list of possible lovers—and not just as a lover but as a rough, demanding dominator. The thought of sex with the man both scared and fascinated Gene. There were times when Gene wanted to be manhandled. That was one reason he played the Central Park game. He’d been told to watch out for johns picked up there—that often a mild-looking upper-upper-middle-class businessman shopped there to let loose of his inner nasty. On occasion that was what Gene was looking for in a hookup.

Gene followed Macek, thinking of a way that he could get to his bench before the hunky Serbian passed that way. At first he thought the man was meandering, but he eventually could see that he was stalking—that he was following the rent-boy Alonzo. Alonzo must have sensed that too, because he found a bench, sat, and let Macek slow as he passed him—then Macek went into slow, eye-contact motion for two more passes before he sat on the bench beside the young dancer, who had held his ground on the bench. Gene watched them leave the park together, Macek cupping the dancer’s buttocks and leading him in the direction of 7th Avenue.

Later that afternoon Gene encountered Alonzo in the park.

“I saw the john you left with earlier, the rough-looking guy with the great build,” Gene said. “Was he—?”

“I’d suggest staying away from him,” Alonzo interjected. “Rough, intense bastard. Big dicked, and it was all about him. He didn’t fuck as much as he conquered. Really rough.”

“But he did it for you?”

“He paid well . . . yes.”

“I mean, you got totally fucked?”

“I got totally beaten down and ravished.”

Gene shivered. Alonzo obviously had meant it as a turn-away warning, but Gene was in a mood and it hit him more as a delicious arousal. So impressed was he that, when the opportunity came, he forgot his rule of only really letting loose on Sunday.

The next Tuesday night he went to his political novels class at Columbia twitching and hardly able to concentrate on the lecture. Macek seemed to be preoccupied and lost his place in his notes several times too—and he seemed to let his eyes linger on Gene more than on most in the class. He asked that Gene stay late after class.

“Your class project prospectus says you were working on a novel about the violence in the breakup of Yugoslavia, Gene,” he said to the young man at the desk in front of the room while the other students were filing out.

“Yes, I find that period fascinating and . . .” He didn’t complete the sentence. He would have said “arousing.” That’s what he thought about the topic, brought on, he knew, by how he viewed the hunky, mysterious Serbian nationalist who was teaching this course. He couldn’t be open about that, though. In his fantasies he wanted to be writhing under this man, but he was a teacher. Gene knew it would be dangerous to go there—even now when he knew that Macek played the Central Park game.

“I was there—in Yugoslavia—during the breakup. I could give you some pointers that might help you decide where to begin with your work.”

“Could you? That would be terrific,” Gene said.

“This evening. Now. We could go to a café or hotel bar or somewhere and chat a bit for an hour. I have time. What do you think?”

It was the bar in a small, rather seedy hotel a few blocks from the Columbia campus, entered off a dark side street. There weren’t many others in the bar. All of them were men. As he sipped his drink and before anything was said other than innocuous chitchat, Gene watched a middle-aged man in a suit pick up a young guy in tight jeans and a chest-revealing mesh T-shirt who had been perched on a stool at the end of the bar. They didn’t head for the hotel exit when they left the bar; they went together to the bank of elevators to the upper floors. So, it was that kind of hotel.

Macek didn’t even get into talking about Yugoslavia and Serbian nationalism.

“I saw you in the park—in Central Park—on Sunday,” the professor said.

“It’s not too far from where I live,” Gene answered. “I like to go there for inspiration.”

“I’m well aware of why young men like you go there,” Macek said, putting a hand under the surface of the table and gripping Gene’s knee. Gene wanted to yelp from how strong the grip was, but he also wanted to melt. He started going hard. “I’ve also seen a couple of the videos you’ve been in.”

“Videos?” Gene asked, panicked about whether to admit to them or not.

“They are on the Internet, on some of the Web sites I like to check out. You’re a sexy young man,” Macek said in a husky voice. “I want to fuck you. I want to break you—like I’ve seen a black bodybuilder do to you on film, but more so.”

“I, uh . . .”

“I have a room upstairs.”

Of course he did. It wasn’t Sunday, and Gene had a rule that he didn’t let loose to his fantasies like this except on Sunday, but, God, he wanted this.

Macek was rough and violent and fucked Gene totally, and the young man hated and loved it, lying there on the floor of the seedy hotel room in a fetal position, mentally checking out both the surface and internal damage when the Serb had dressed and left the room—and still half hoping that the door would open and the man would return and continue using his body to its limits.

No man Gene had had sex with until now had a cock the size of Macek’s, and no man had used his cock as a weapon like Macek had done with him. If Gene hadn’t been promiscuous and trained to big cocks, the Serb would have totally ruined him.

The first fuck was just inside the room, starting with Gene on his knees and Macek brutally face fucking him while he took short time-outs to strip the young man. Macek remained clothed, just his long, heavy dick protruding out of his fly. He lifted the moaning Gene, turned him, and slammed him up against the wall next to the door.

“Chest and cheek against the wall; butt projected out,” he commanded, and Gene did as commanded. Grabbing Gene’s wrists together with one strong hand, Macek forced the young man’s arms above his head. Guiding his cock with the other hand, he put it in position at Gene’s ass, spit down on his cock a couple of times to provide a minimum off lube, and, as Gene cried out at the violation, penetrated him deep and began to pump hard.

It took Gene much huffing and puffing and watering of the eyes to open to the man, but when he had and Macek had set up a steady rhythm of the fuck, the Serb suddenly pulled out of Gene’s ass, spun him around, and gave him a slap across the face that sent the young man reeling back to go down on his belly on the bed. Macek was immediately straddling him and pulling strips of leather from around his waist that had served as a belt. He used these to bind Gene’s wrists, his arms extended above his head, the young man’s ankles, and his legs, holding his thighs close together.

“Is this how you treated your enemies in Serbia?” Gene asked, close to sobbing.

“Yes, but you are not my enemy. You will survive it. But you want to write about how brutal the civil wars were where I came from? This is a taste of that. If I had not done it, it would have been done to me.”

Macek stood off from the side of the bed, giving Gene a full view of him, while he stripped. His body was muscular, magnificent. And there were scars on his torso and thighs from the grazing of bullets and knife slashes. When he turned his back, Gene could see permanent welts from lashings. Gene moaned and whimpering, having no trouble understanding what the man had been through and what had made him so demanding and violent.

And then Gene screamed, which was muffled by Macek stuffing Gene’s briefs in his mouth. The Serb had mounted his ass on the bed, had thrust inside his restricted passage with his huge cock, and was pumping him again.

Gene’s senses were flooded with a combination of pain and pleasure. This was what he’d been aching for—to feel the fuck. He’d been with so many “slam-bang-thanks-good-bye” men in the last couple of months that this hell was heaven for him. The cum rose quickly in him and he shot his load into the bedspread on the creaking bed.

With a laugh, Macek whipped off the bindings and turned Gene and pushed him off to the floor.

“Crawl to the door,” he commanded. “Let’s see how far you get.”

Gene didn’t get far before Macek reached him; crouched over him, holding him up on all fours; and finished the fuck doggie style, taking him from behind and above hard and deep. When the Serb had ejaculated, he tore off his condom, dropped it in front of Gene’s face, and let the young man collapse into a fetal position.

“That was fun,” he growled as he dressed. “You’ve got a sweet, tight ass. Surprising as much as you’ve probably been used. You gave in to it like you really wanted it. You needed it and you loved it. We’ll do it again. You’ll make great grades in the course—and you’ll be surprised where we meet again.” And then he left the room.

The young man lay there, moaning, too weak even to pull the briefs out of his mouth for some time. He had been brutalized. He ached all over. But he was in heaven. The man had been right. It was exactly what he had needed. The question was how often could he take what he now knew he needed and still survive?

* * * *

Not all men picked up in Central Park were rough or self-possessed and one trick Gene served in the weeks Victor Macek was reeling him in under his control remained memorable in Gene’s mind. Gene was lounging on his usual bench in the park. Sometime previously he had noticed a possible john sitting on a bench across the path and a bit down from Gene’s bench. The man was obviously Jewish, complete with black yarmulke—a small skull cap—white shirt and black trousers, and was at least in his late thirties, but he looked like he had a good body and he had a sultry sensuality about him. He had a bushy, wavy head of black hair, which also curled on his bare forearms and spilled out of the neck of his white shirt, the top two buttons open and the fineness of the shirt material not obscuring the hairy barrel chest underneath.

Gene caught the man watching him, and he wondered why he was taking so long to approach him if he was looking for a rent-boy. But he wasn’t just watching. He was sketching on a large pad of paper as well. Gene was wondering whether he was expected to make the approach, when the rent-boy, Alonzo, who he knew from working the park, strolled by, stopped, and stood in front of the bench, raising one foot after the other, placing them beside Gene, to stretch out his legs. He and Gene chatted a bit.

Gene brought Alonzo’s attention to the Jewish man at the bench across the way. “See that guy across the path? He’s been sitting there sketching and watching me for some time. You know anything about him? Is he a player?”

Alonzo looked around, took the man in, and turned back and smiled. “That’s the lover.”

“The lover?”

“Yeah. His name is Josh—a rich Jew from the garment district. He’s one who’s good for you on a day you’ve been fucked really rough. He’s sweet. He’ll make you believe in riding the clouds in sex. Hung like a bull but he makes love—doesn’t just fuck. Pays well.”

After Alonzo moved on, Gene waited a few minutes, giving the guy he’d called “the lover” time to either make a move or move on, but he didn’t do either. So, Gene made the move himself.

“Hi. I couldn’t help seeing you over here, looking at me and sketching something,” Gene said, standing in front of the man where he was sitting on the bench. The man gave him a warm smile.

“I was sketching you,” the man said. “I’m in men’s wear. You look like a male model. I couldn’t resist drawing you in some clothes I’ve been designing in my mind.” He flipped a couple of pages on his sketch pad and turned it to where Gene could see it.

“Hey. That’s really good. It looks like me. And you thought right. I am a male model. I like what you’ve clothed me in in that sketch. I think you should make that ensemble.”

“I’ve also been wondering what else you might do,” the man said. “Do you do anything else other than modeling? I saw you talking with Alonzo just now. Do you do what Alonzo does?”

“Go with men for money, do you mean?”

“Yes. Alonzo has gone with me.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Did he say he was disappointed with going with me?”

“No. He was very complimentary.”

“I haven’t just sketched you in clothes I’m considering designing,” the man said. “I also like to sketch fantasies I have. Would you like to see? You probably don’t want to see it if you aren’t cruising.”

“Sure, I’d love to see it,” Gene answered.

The man flipped the pages in the sketch pad again and turned another sketch around for Gene to see.

Gene sucked in breath. The sketch was of two men—he and the man—this man, Josh. Both of them were naked. The man in the sketch was fucking Gene in a missionary on a bed. The man in the sketch had a beautiful, hirsute body. He was holding the other man’s hips and he was inside him deep. The Gene of the sketch had his legs raised and spread and his head was arched back looking at the viewer. The expression on his face was one of ecstasy.

“Is this how Alonzo said it would be with me?” the man whispered.

“Yes,” Gene said, with a low moan. “How realistic is this sketch you’ve done of yourself?”

“I try to be honest in my sketching. Would you go with me for the night if you find I look like this naked? My place is a couple of subway stops away. Will you go with me and then lay down for me if I live up to this sketch?” He named a fee that was quite generous.

They hopped a subway at the 72nd Street station midway at the park on West Central Park and rode it down to the port authority stop at 42nd Street. The Jew, introducing himself as Josh, held Gene’s eyes with his during the journey, but he didn’t otherwise touch him or show evidence of possession or dominance. They chatted a bit, Josh revealing that he ran an exclusive men’s shop, designing and showing his own clothes to an invitation-only list of well-heeled patrons. Beyond that he also volume edited a small literary journal. Their interests were amazingly similar, despite the difference in the worlds they lived in. Although Josh was in the modern tradition, he was definitely a traditional Jew, if not extremely Orthodox, and was right at home in the garment district world. Gene had been raised totally unchurched. Because of their expressed mutual interests, Gene revealed more of himself than he normally would to a john. He told Josh of his modeling for the House of Havlos and that he was a creative writing student at Columbia.

Their destination was a narrow, five-story brownstone on a quiet block of 39th Street, smack dab in the middle of the garment district, the ground floor of which had a garage door at one side that, Josh said, led back to several parking spaces across the back of building to accommodate his personal car and a couple of shop vans, and a shop on the other side, with large windows toward the street with mannequins, in men’s clothes, on display. Between them was a door and a hallway with an elevator and a stairwell beyond.

As they waited for the elevator, Josh pulled Gene gently to him and they engaged in their first, tender kiss. “That was nice,” Josh whispered as the elevator arrived and they pulled away from each other. “You have sweet, soft lips.”

Yes, it was nice, Gene agreed in his mind.

As the elevator rose, Josh pointed out what they were passing. The second floor was for the clothing business work rooms. The third was where his literary magazine was published. The fourth and fifth proved to house Josh’s expansive, expensively and tastefully furnished living quarters. Alonzo had told Gene Josh was from money. Gene believed him.

Josh’s technique was to work slowly but deliberately and always with the climax anticipated, and it worked a charm with Gene, who was used to the fast lay and faster good-bye.

The bottom floor of Josh’s living quarters was essentially all one room, with one area flowing into the other and the back wall, overlooking a flood-light swathed lush garden, being entirely glass. The seduction sofa faced the wall of glass, so that when Josh went to the kitchen area marked off with a breakfast bar island to make their drinks, Gene didn’t see him.

When he came back with drinks, he had stripped down to a pair of filmy white cotton nearly knee-length boxer shorts. The shorts might have been from a line of sexy men’s clothes designed by Josh himself, as they were cleverly constructed to give dueling impressions. On the surface they were very modest, covering a lot and looking like dowdy puritanical undergarments. But as Gene saw when Josh was standing before him, holding out Gene’s drink, they were so gauzy that they were functionally transparent.

Josh was dark haired and hirsute. He was built solid and muscular without being overbuilt. The patterns of curls on his forearms and thighs and swirling around his pecs and down his sternum and belly and into his pubes were so sensual that they had to be groomed. The curls of his pubes were also tight but manly. Most significant, they could clearly be seen through the material of the underwear. His half-hard cock was mammoth, the exposed bulb huge and pressed against the material of the cotton shorts, hiding nothing while declaring the garb as pure innocence.

Josh looked down into Gene’s eyes. “Satisfactory? Does it live up the sketch?”

“Very satisfactory,” Gene whispered in a breathy voice. In his mind he was already riding the juicy cock.

But Josh made him wait.

* * * *

They sat close to each other on the sofa, looking out into the garden as the natural light floated away to be replaced by the spotlights highlighting new and different aspects. They sipped their drinks and kissed and fondled each other, Josh’s hands going everywhere, slowly disrobing Gene until the young man was naked and hard and throbbing. Josh brushed Gene’s hand away each time he tried to remove the gauzy underwear shorts, the last of what Josh was wearing, but he didn’t stop the man he’d bought for the night from slipping his hand under the garment’s waistband and fondling Josh’s balls and stroking his cock bigger and bigger and bigger yet. Gene knew why he was there.

An album rested on the coffee table. Gene had assumed that it would contain dirty photos meant to arouse him. But, even better, it contained sketches rendered by Josh himself of other young men—and of Josh—of Josh fucking other young men on this sofa or on a bed, mostly likely in a room above where they were plastered together, making languid love, working their way into higher heat and arousal. Invariably in the sketches, the young man was shown in ecstasy. In some the root of Josh’s thick cock was shown inside the young man’s gaping hole. Josh was giving Gene every opportunity to know the extraordinary length and girth of him, so Gene’s arousal of knowing how much of Josh was inside the young men in these sketches—and the anticipation that they were moving slowly but inexorably to the shaft being inside Gene heightened his arousal to where he couldn’t take any more.

Josh broke the tension by pulling away from Gene and standing in front of him, his thumbs under the edge of the waistband of the shorts on either side, at his hips, his face smiling, inviting, commanding. He wasn’t going to do it; Gene had to pull them away. He did, and the massive erection popped out of him. He took it in his mouth and gagged at the attempt to handle it all, while Josh stood there in front of him, murmuring what he liked and what he liked better, his hips swaying slowly, his fingers pinching and rubbing his own nipples, face fucking his young man for the night.

After an eternity, Josh gripped Gene’s shoulders with his hands and gently pushed the young man back into the sofa, twisting his body so that his chest was pressed into the sofa arm. He reached around and picked up the album again, turning the pages to show the sketch of another young man draped over the sofa arm, his knees pressed into the edge of the sofa cushion, and his tail in the air. Josh was hovering over the young man, holding his massive cock in his hand up to the young man’s hole. The page was flipped and another young man was in the same position, but Josh was cupping his chin, arching his head back, the young man’s mouth was open in a silent scream, and Josh’s shaft was buried to the hilt inside his ass. The third sketch was yet another young man in the same position about to be skewered, and the fourth, another sketch of the cock buried.

Gene was breathing heavily and panting. He elevated his tail, moving into the position of the young men being fucked in the sketches. “Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me now,” he whimpered. They had moved beyond the male whore and john stage into one man wanting to be covered by the other one. This was what Josh had been waiting for.

Josh mounted the sofa and Gene’s ass and did just that, slowly, sensually, totally.

Later, after feeding him a steak dinner, Josh fucked Gene again in a large bed in a room immediately above the living room sofa—and with a full glass wall onto the lighted garden. He took an hour and a half with Gene, slowly, totally bringing Gene to the brink in demanding positions and then holding, deep inside him, waiting for the young man to come away from an explosion before starting to work him again to a high level of pleasure and arousal. Three times Gene shot his load before Josh could stave his completion off, but Josh just laughed each time and began again.

At the end of the hour and a half, having gone late into the night, Gene dozed off, totally exhausted and satiated, lying on his belly, one leg and one arm dangling off the side of the bed, with Josh half covering him on the other side, nibbling at an ear lobe and still working Gene’s prostate with a buried index finger.

In the morning he lay there, after having ridden Josh’s cock in a cowboy, and watched Josh shower in a glass-fronted cubicle and then dress for the day in his shop downstairs.

“I’m afraid I’m late.” You’ll have to see yourself out after you’ve showered and dressed.

“Will we do this again?” Gene asked. “You may have been the best I’ve had.”

“Are you fishing for a rating from me?” Josh said, giving Gene a half smile and an amused look in his eyes.

“No, of course not . . . yes.”

“Let’s say that I won’t pay you for sex again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t satisfy,” Gene said, his disappointment clear in his voice.

“Oh, you satisfied fully. But it cheapens it for me to pay you for it. You satisfied me so much that I could see you as a lover, not as a paid whore. Think about it. If you want to see it as a possible relationship, come back to me again. If not, I don’t want it to be something tawdry.”

“Quite aside from that,” Josh said, “you said that you are writing in your graduate studies—fiction, using the breakup of Yugoslavia as a setting, did you say? Intriguing. Bring me some of your writing. We’re always looking for new writers for my literary journal.”

He left, leaving Gene to think of what he wanted. Alonzo had been right; Josh had been a lover. Victor Macek was a master, a conqueror. Which did Gene want? Could he get both?

But as for sending something Josh might use in his literary journal? Certainly. He was determined that someday he would be notable for his writing, not for opening his legs to randy men.

* * * *

Victor Macek didn’t care about Gene Worth’s whoring only on Sunday policy. Indeed, the young man didn’t have the courage to tell Macek there was such a policy. For the next three weeks, Macek took Gene to the seedy hotel near the campus after the Tuesday evening class and banged the shit out of him. He wasn’t as brutal with him as he had been the first time, but he took him hard in every position that occurred to him, and Gene gave him whatever he wanted. Each time it was a victor taking the spoils and doing so brutally. Macek paid him, though, and told him to stay out of the park on Sunday—to save it all for him—and Gene did what the Serb thug told him to do. Gene was totally submissive to the hunky Serb, who fucked him totally every Tuesday night.

Gene didn’t have much left for Manny Rodriguez and the two drifted apart, Gene spending as much time at the Columbia library and pestering the model assignment assistant at the House of Havlos for work as he did in Manny’s apartment. Although Manny pressured him to do more porn films, Gene held these off as well. He had been shocked that Macek had seen a couple of them and recognized him. Gene hadn’t fully thought out what happened to those films.

It was to avoid being in the apartment while Manny was filming one Sunday evening that prompted Gene to attend a faculty-student cocktail party on the Columbia campus, where his life took a sudden and significant turn.

Victor Macek drifted over to him, a glass of beer in hand to give him, as Gene was entering the party room.

“I’m glad you came,” Macek said in a low voice. “I was going to tell you to but it slipped my mind. I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal? I had to get out of my apartment. I thought coming here was as good as anywhere,” Gene answered. “And there’s free beer,” he said, lifting the glass Macek had given him.

“So, Rodriguez is filming another porn scene you didn’t want to be in?”

Gene gave the Serb a shocked look. He’d never told him Manny Rodriguez was his roommate, let alone that he’s the one who filmed the porn videos. He hadn’t told Macek anything at all about Manny. “Excuse me. How did you—?”

“I told you I’d seen the films. Manny is the one who showed them to me. But hold that thought. I have others to talk to. But, before I go, didn’t you tell me once that you fucked women too?”

“Yes, sometimes, but—”

“And you’d do it for advantage and if our own arrangement could be more convenient?”

“Probably, but—”

But Macek heard his name being called from across the room, and he turned from Gene and was moving away between clumps of people chattering and laughing. A student Gene had a couple of classes with slid into the space were Macek had been and started talking to Gene.

Macek was gone before Gene realized that he hadn’t said what the proposal he had was—and why he had asked whether Gene fucked women too.

While he chatted with the other student, Gene’s eyes roamed the room, looking for Macek. When he saw him, he froze and a chill went up his spine.

“I wonder why that woman over there is here?” he said, “the older woman talking with Macek.”

“Oh, that’s his wife,” the other student answered. “She some sort of fashion house queen over in the garment district.”

The chill went up his spine again. It wasn’t because he had been told the woman worked in the fashion industry. He knew that. It was Helene Havlos, the head of the House of Havlos, the fashion house he modeled for. He’d caught glimpses of her before—and had seen her looking at him, as well. What caused him to do a double take was learning that there was a connection between her—from where he worked—and Victor Macek—from where he went to school. The woman who controlled his paycheck and the man who not only controlled his success in school but who was fucking him. It couldn’t get any more dangerous than this. He couldn’t help himself; he felt himself going hard. The danger of it was intoxicating.

Later Macek came back to Gene when he was alone.

“Come with me. You need to go to the men’s room,” he said, coming up close to Gene and putting a hand on the small of Gene’s back—possessively, although not in sight of anyone in the room.

“I do?” Gene asked. But when Macek pressed in with his hand, indicating a direction in which he wanted Gene to go, the young man stood his ground. “You didn’t tell me you were married to Helene Havlos,” he said. “You don’t know I work for her—that I do some modeling for her fashion house?”

“Of course I know. And I know about the videos because Manny Rodriguez brought them to me. Manny does work for her too. I thought I’d be interested in you and he knew you were one of my students. He pimps for me now and again. He was right. I wanted to fuck you even before he showed me the videos. I want to fuck you now. Come to the men’s room with me.”

Gene’s anger at Manny flared up. He was even more of a manipulating pimp than Gene had known. Gene was just someone for him to use for his own advantage.

“Wait. You said you had a proposal for me. Tell me. Does it have anything to do with whether I’d fuck a woman?”

“Yes, it does. Helene and I have a good relationship, but I don’t fuck her. She likes her male models. The one she has had in her bed has left her for a Paris house.”

“Nikos? Nikos Constandinos?”

“Yes, the very one. She’s had her eye on you. You could write your ticket for modeling gigs and up your fee scale. She’s quite a load, but she’s not disgusting. And once you’re fused with her, she’ll drain you dry and you’ll have a good enough time. The deal is you come to live with us in our apartment on Central Park West, by the park—it’s big enough that we rattle around in it—and you’ll get free room and board and cash on the side when you perform. And the bonus is that I’ll be there to use and pay you when she isn’t. What do you say?”

“Well, I—”

“I’m not going to wait around for you to mull it. My balls ache. I’m going to fuck you. Come with me.”

Gene went with him, through one corridor off the party room and then turning into another. It wasn’t a communal men’s room. It was a private bathroom. Macek slammed Gene’s back against the wall and unbuckled, unzipped, and jerked the young man’s trousers off in one deft move. He took two condom packets out of his pocket, slit one, removed the disk, and rolled it onto Gene’s hard cock.

“What is this? You want me to—?”

“No, of course I don’t want you to fuck me. I’m fucking you, and I’m going to do you so hard, you’ll come a gusher for me. I don’t want this to get messy. We have to go back to the party.”

Still pushing against Gene with his chest to hold the young man against the wall, he unzipped himself, stripped the trousers of both of them down to the floor, growled for Gene to step out of his and he did the same, and then he rolled the other condom on his cock.

“Climb my hips with your legs,” he growled.

Gene did so, grunted and panted as Macek spiked him, and then they were both groaning and moaning, as Macek pushed Gene’s back up and down on the wall with the strength of the thrusts of his cock and bruised Gene’s lips with his kisses.

Gene came a gusher into the condom covering his shaft just as promised and Macek wasn’t long behind him.

As they readjusted their clothing, Macek said, “If you come live with us and keep Helene happy, in addition to room and board and incidentals she’ll pay you $200 for every jack off like that and I’ll pay you $100 when you do it for me. I’ll make you happier so I won’t pay you as much. So, how about it?”

The duplicity of his current roommate flashed through his brain as did the unlikelihood that he’d have to go back out into Central Park anytime soon. Colder weather was coming on.

“OK, fine.”

* * * *

The West Central Park apartment proved to be even larger and more lavishly appointed than Gene had imagined it would be. It took up half of the eighteenth floor of a converted early twentieth-century hotel. The apartment was fully staffed with phantom servants, bar one. Except for that one, they went about their duties unobtrusively and effectively. The staff of the head of the House of Havlos included—if you didn’t count her husband, Victor, and now Gene—a cook, a housekeeper, a butler/handyman, a chauffeur, and a lady’s maid. All of them saw everything but made like they saw nothing, and they all efficiently cleaned up anything that was out of order without judgment. The one exception was Helene’s hairdresser and makeup artist. Leon was a nervous little French male tart who hated Gene the minute Gene took up residence and let him know that he did.

Gene sensed that from the start and he only had to speculate about why it was so to the middle of first night.

Helene celebrated Gene’s addition to the household by summoning him to her bed that first night. She didn’t want the young man to stay the night—only long enough for her to coax an ejaculation out of him and to make sure he could satisfactorily service her. She had passed seventy and was what those currying favor with her called zaftig. The fact is that she was one hefty old lady. She had big jugs for tits; beyond that just about everything else was too big too. Her cunt was a cavern guarded by puffy lips. She looked younger, but at seventy-two that didn’t necessarily mean much. She, of course, dressed elegantly and, having her own fashion house, managed to wear clothes that covered a lot. But a boy toy in her bed, fucking her, was going to know what couldn’t be hidden.

Gene had been warned that she wasn’t as interested in climaxes of her own as she was in the illusion that she could still pull them out of a young man—someone of the caliber, in desirable looks, of her male models. Thus Gene had to employ independent thoughts while he was mounting her in the semidarkness of her bedroom to manage to harden and come for her. Luckily, he was highly sexed and had a vivid imagination.

On that night Gene could switch between memories of sex alternately with her husband, Victor Macek, and the Jewish lover, Josh Steinem. And he managed. She was happy, after toying with his cock and fondling his body and even giving him some shaft mouth work, while being bent over several pillows on her bed on her belly and Gene covering her on top high, like a jockey, with his fists buried in the mattress on either side of her upper arms and crouched on her bent legs beside her thighs and riding her cunt. He established a good angle, good depth, and a lively bounce thanks to the leverage he could get off the balls of his feet. By alternating between thoughts of Victor’s rough takings and Josh’s lovemaking, Gene managed an ejaculation. She said there was no need for a condom, so she knew when he came and was pleased that, young and virile, he had a lot to give.

She was happy, and Gene tired her. So, she released him with a satisfied smile.

Gene’s passage in the night hours to his own bedroom in the back depths of the warren of rooms in the apartment took the young man past Victor’s bedroom. His door was slightly open. He had the hairdresser, Leon, on his knees at the foot of his bed, with his arms spread and bound to the thick posts of the four-poster bed. Both Victor and Leon were naked. Leon was writhing but egging Victor on as Victor strapped Leon’s back and buttocks with a belt. Gene stood there in shock long enough to see Victor saddle up behind Leon, shove his hard cock up Leon’s passage, and start to vigorously fuck him.

Later that night Victor visited Gene in his room to welcome the young man to the apartment. He took Gene in a vigorous, but mostly conventional missionary position, though, and there was only that one coupling that night, Victor having already gotten his rocks off with the hairdresser. At no time in the months Victor fucked Gene, although he fucked the young man rough, did he go to the extremes that he went with Leon. Leon didn’t have to walk the catwalk in House of Havlos clothes and Gene did. Marks on a model’s back would preclude him from working, and Gene had been promised more, not fewer, modeling gigs with this arrangement.

Leon, however, apparently loved it and was high strung and jealous. He knew Victor was doing Gene too—that Gene wasn’t only in the apartment for Helene—and from the very beginning he hated the young model and was testy with Victor for fucking Gene too.

For a couple of months, Gene juggled attentions from Victor and Josh. He’d sent samples of his writing to Josh who professed to judge they were quite acceptable for publishing in his literary magazine. Josh used them to lure Gene back to his building and his bed again and again and to show Gene the ecstasy of intense lovemaking.

“You could come live with me—have a piece of producing the literary magazine and also model my clothes for me,” Josh told Gene the last time the young man came to him for sex and strokes on his writing.

There came the night that everything changed, however.

Leon was supposed to be on vacation, so Victor had brought Gene into his bed for the night. Leon had missed his flight, and after hours of being unable to get on another one, he’d come back into the city, to the apartment.

When he walked past the door to Victor’s bedroom, he found that it was ajar. Victor was on his back on the bed and he was holding Gene over him in the position of the crab, both men facing up to the ceiling, Gene supporting his back over Victor’s chest with his arms bent and his fists buried in the mattress on either side of Victor’s biceps, his legs bent and his feet flat on the mattress on either side of Victor’s thighs, and Victor grasping his waist and raising and lowering the young man’s ass channel on his cock.

It only took Leon a couple of seconds to grasp what was happening and for it to make his blood boil. He already was in a state from having his flight canceled and not being accommodated yet on a new flight. He went to his room, retrieved a revolver, and came back to Victor’s bedroom door. When Leon started yelling obscenities at Gene for fucking his man, Victor moved to roll out from underneath Gene as the first shots were fired. In the process Gene was thrown off to one side before the bullets flew. The first three bullets caught Victor in the chest. The fourth one went into Leon’s skull when he turned the gun on himself.

The story featured on the front page of the New York Times for three days. The distraught widow nearly had an emotional breakdown and required the total support of those nearest to her. There wasn’t anyone nearer to her at that point than Gene Worth was. He became her constant companion at home and at work, having little time for anything else, although he somehow managed to finish out his semester at Columbia, receiving an A in the class Victor Macek had taught, based on the grades Macek had given before the jealous French hairdresser blew him away.