“I don’t understand why I can’t stay with you in Philadelphia,” I said, trying to keep the whine out of my voice. Of course, I knew precisely why I couldn’t, but I wanted him to say it. I wanted Larry to clear the air and admit to me that he had a family to go to in Philadelphia. I don’t know what I’d do then--or what he’d do with the truth out in the open--but I was tired of his evasions. “You had no trouble with me staying with you in Harrisburg. If you don’t have a family you don’t want to know about me in Philadelphia, why would that be different from Harrisburg?”

That he had no trouble with me staying with him in Harrisburg wasn’t exactly true either. We’d been in one of those small one-bedroom transient apartments at a Homestead Suite near the state capital complex, where he’d kept me pretty much locked down and he didn’t bring anyone back to. I could understand that. He was an aide to some sort of important Pennsylvania state senator, and I was a rent boy he’d lured off a pole in a club. But it isn’t like he’d just shown up at the club occasionally to take me out for a spin. We’d lived together for the two months of the spring legislative session.

“I told you, Angel,” he said, the knuckles of his hands on the steering wheel white as we drove on I-81 from Harrisburg toward Philadelphia and his voice showing the tension as well, “I don’t have a permanent home in Philadelphia. I stay with my parents. I hardly can take you there. I’ll get a room for you somewhere.”

A room somewhere. I almost snorted at that--and at the obvious lie that he was living with his parents when he was in Philadelphia. Still, it had been a small victory that he’d agreed to take me back to Philadelphia at all. He could have left me in Harrisburg--even have said he expected me to be there ready to be locked up in a hotel suite for him to play with when he came back for the fall legislative session. Fat chance of that. Although, who knows what I would have done. I think the club would have taken me back. I think I was a crowd pleaser when I was there--something different than the usual dancer rent boys. There were those who were turned on by half and half--halfway there, I thought of it. The boobs had been done, pretty much just buds but still a handful. I doubted I’d go further than that.

And nicely sensitive tits they were too. That’s how, back in Harrisburg, Larry had cut off any discussions about his living arrangements in Philadelphia. Embracing me from behind, both of us on our knees on the bed. Larry running his hands up under the hem of the silky slip he liked me to wear, until he could cup and squeeze my breasts. Nuzzling my neck with his lips and then stifling my questions by possessing my mouth. French kissing me as he entered me with that big dick of his that always made me melt.

Chances were good that even if he admitted to me that he had a wife, two children, a dog, and a cat waiting for him in Philadelphia, I would be content with sitting in a small hotel room, waiting for the chance to have that dick of his working inside me and his hands squeezing my tits--just his; not a succession of drunken louts. But the evasions were driving me wild.

“Look, Larry, if you have a family in Philadelphia, just--”

“Oh, for the love of Christ, could you just get off that? Here, I’m pulling off the highway to get gas. This is the halfway point between Harrisburg and Philadelphia.”

“Good,” I said, as he nosed the Buick onto the off ramp. I barely caught the name of the turnoff, but laughed when I saw that it was a place called “Halfway.” Not much of a place, though, just a few buildings on either side of the bridge over the highway. One of them, off to the south, was a gas station, though. “I have to take a piss and do something about this chipped nail anyway,” I said. I looked down at my lilac-colored nails and the little chunk out of the index finger nail on the right hand.

“I’ll just be a jiffy,” I cheerfully chirped, as Larry stopped at a pump and I took up my purse and opened the passenger door.

“Take your time,” he answered, his voice showing that he was still pissed at my wheedling at him on what we were driving into in Philadelphia. “Take all of the time in the world,” he repeated, letting the words come out in little puffs of relief of tension.

I should have paid more attention to what he said--and the way he said it. When I returned from the ladies room, the Buick wasn’t standing at the pump. It wasn’t parked over at the side, either. And I looked across the road to a greasy diner with semitrailers parked next to it and to the small strip motel beside that, one with the sign Halfway Diner and the other with the sign Halfway Motel, and still there was no Buick.

Then I looked back at the pump. The small duffle bag with some of my stuff in it was sitting next to the pump. My gaze went to the gas station window then, where I saw two guys, one thin and young and the other burly and not so young, staring at me like I was the afternoon entertainment just about ready to give them a show.

I walked over, perched on the duffle bag, and lit up a cigarette, just like I knew where Larry had gone and that he’d be back in a few minutes. Inside, though, I doubted that Larry was coming back for me. This was typical Larry--running out in the middle of what was not even an argument.

* * * *

“Uh, miss,” and then as I turned my head toward the gas station building, the voice adjusted to, “Um, sir.”

The younger, thinner of the two men who had been watching me from the station window was approaching me. He had a cooking pot, with lid, in his hands, holding the pot’s handle with one hand and the pot lid with the other. I had the sensation of him hunting for his dinner and stalking something to trap in the pot by scooping the prey up. He was much to the same age as I was--perhaps just shy of twenty--and seemed embarrassed in approaching me. He wasn’t exactly ugly, but he was scrawny, with a bad case of acne, and looked beat down.

His problem with gender identifying me was natural. From the back I could be taken as a woman, especially if my painted nails were in view, as they were just now, as I was still worrying the split nail. I was holding my lit cigarette out, supporting that arm with my hand on the elbow--sort of a Bette Davis pose, which I cultivated. And my hair was curly, full of body, with lighter blond highlights, and descended to my shoulders. It was one of my best features with men when I was having sex; they loved to run their hands through my hair.

When I turned, though, the possibilities skewed toward the male. I wasn’t wearing facial makeup. When I did, I could easily pass as female. And my loose flannel plaid shirt and worn jeans weren’t a help in discerning sex. The shirt was loose enough to hide my breast projection. And I wasn’t built big enough to noticeably fill out a basket.

“Yes?” I responded, giving him a smile, which made him blush. He was approaching me in jerks and starts. Looking past him, I could see the older, hulkier man standing in the window. He was much more like the men I usually encountered and serviced, and the expression on his face, although quizzical, could, I think, quickly go to interest if I vamped him. I had no intention of doing that, of course, but I sensed my vulnerability--and probably abandonment--and needed to keep all of my options open.

It was then that I realized what was missing. I was sitting on my duffle bag, but I’d also brought a suitcase. Nearly all of my clothes were in there. Thank god that my makeup kit was in the duffle bag. “Shit,” I exclaimed.

“Excuse me? I’m sorry. It’s just that--” The young man had taken a step back and was withdrawing into himself. Visions of turtle and shell ran through my mind.

“Sorry,” I quickly said. “It’s not you. I just thought of something unfortunate.” I had to adjust my voice to a lower register than I had started in midsentence, thinking that it might be best to be male for the moment. “I’m sorry, I’ll move from the pump if a car comes up. I’m just waiting for my ride to come back.”

“It’s just that . . .”

“Just what?” I asked.

He pointed to my lit cigarette and then to the pump. “A spark could set off an explosion.”

Ah, the stealthy approach explained. “Sorry, I’ll put it out.” I started to rub it out on the sole of my loafers, but this sent the young man into panic.

“No, please,” he exclaimed. As he did so, he held the pot out.

Ah, that explained too. I gingerly put the cigarette in the pot and he slammed the lid down like he was the hero of the bomb squad. The town was saved. My hero. I gave him another smile. I guess I could suck him off, but he hardly looked the type who would be much fun in a fuck. My eyes went to his crotch, but I couldn’t tell. The jeans were baggy. Now the hulk in the gas station window . . .

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked. “It doesn’t look like--”

“No, it doesn’t look like he’ll be back soon, does it?” I said, with a resigned sigh. “Is the diner across the street any good?” I said that as I stood and lifted the duffle bag. But before he could answer, I exclaimed another “Shit!” as the seam in the bottom of the duffle gave way and out spilled most of the contents. Some of the contents were sex toys, which caused the young man to blanche, retreat a step, and look totally embarrassed.

They weren’t his sex toys being revealed, though. I downgraded the possibility that he could be any use to me in exchange for servicing. The hulk in the gas station window, on the other hand, was sporting a big grin.

I turned the duffle over and scooped the escaped contents back in it.

“It’s the best diner in town.” The guy at the pump said in a meek voice. And then he laughed, releasing the tension in the air. “I guess you’d have to say that it’s the only diner in town--and that this isn’t much of a town.”

“Thanks,” I said, wedging the turned-over duffle under my arm. “I guess I’ll give it a try. If the guy in the Buick comes back--”

“I’ll tell him you are over at the diner,” the young man said, hurriedly as he backed off. “And the motel over there isn’t too expensive if you need . . . my name’s Dan. I work part time over there too. The other guy, in the station, is Gus. If there’s anything . . .” He sort of let that trail off, though. I think he was so overwhelmed by the situation that he didn’t hardly know what to say. I felt from the way he was hopping around and backing off that he couldn’t wait to get back into the building to tell Gus what he’d seen fall out of my duffle. I was pretty sure that Gus knew better than Dan what had been on display.

On second look, he looked sort of cute. The shyness became him, and when that acne was gone . . . well, he was at least worth a smile and having on my side.

“Thanks . . . Dan . . . you’ve been very helpful. My name’s Angelo. When the Buick comes back.”

“Yes . . . sir . . . I’ll tell him you’re over at the diner.”

And then, as Dan skittered back into the gas station building, I clumped across the road, stopping every few steps to ensure that I still had control over the duffle. As I drew close to the diner, I could see through the picture windows that several sets of eyes were watching me.

I laughed. It was probably the most entertainment these people had in a month of Sundays. I guess it was something that I could still laugh at this predicament.

All were silent and facing the door as I entered the diner. All men, no women. I found this a bit disconcerting and, for no reason I could put my thumb on, foreboding. I found myself sorry I hadn’t pulled my hair back in a pony tail or hadn’t painted my nails that morning. Without my facial makeup I was halfway between here and there. I wasn’t sure which to be. So, I stayed as neutral as possible.

Directly opposite the door, which jangled and almost made me jump when I opened it, standing behind a lunch counter, leaning into the counter with his arms spread wide and hands pressed into the back edge of the counter, was a tall, dark-headed, thin guy wearing a short-sleeved white shirt that showed sleeve tattoos on both arms and a spider web tattoo on either side of his neck running right up under a scraggly beard. His eyes were boring into me and he had a half grin on his face.

“Been sittin’ over there for a while, ain’t cha?” he said in a gravelly voice. “Been left to fend for yourself?”

“He’s just run an errand,” I answered. “I decided I was hungry and the young guy over there recommended this restaurant.”

“Not likely,” came a deep voice off to the side, which was met with laughs from more than one. Seven men of various ages and sizes--all definitely blue collar, though--were sitting in booths on the north side of the diner. It immediately registered with me that these must be the guys who matched up to the bunch of semis parked in tandem at the side of the diner. I looked over to the other side of the diner. Back in the corner, sitting in a booth, was a big-muscle dude, probably in his fifties, with wavy gray hair and the look of money about him. A blue denim shirt and pressed jeans and a peek at very expensive cowboy boots in the space under the booth. He also had some sort of flashy ring or two that were catching the light and reflecting off the diner walls and ceiling. He was smoking a cigarette, nursing a cup of coffee, and appeared to be reading a newspaper. Only appeared to be doing so, though, I could see. He was as interested in me as any of the others were.

While I was still looking at him, he lifted his coffee cup to indicate he wanted a refill, and the guy behind the counter was there so fast with a pot that I surmised that the older guy in the corner was the big daddy of this tiny burg.

While the tattooed waiter was gone, I gingerly put the duffle on the floor, being careful that nothing fell out--with the thought that if one of my toys saw the light of day in here, the truckers would have me on the floor and using it in nothing flat. I’d had considerable experience with long-distance truckers. Once again I missed the leavening effect of having a woman present.

The tattooed waiter returned. “What can I get you?”

“Serving breakfast or lunch?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

I took a quick look at the menu and ordered a big breakfast. I probably should have taken inventory of what was left to me first in monetary means, though, as I suddenly realized that most of my cash and all of my credit cards were in the suitcase that was inside a Buick somewhere down the road toward Philadelphia. I did have some cash on me. Just not enough to be throwing it around on “everything and the kitchen sink” breakfasts.

That didn’t stop me from cleaning off my plate. Who knew where my next meal would be coming from?

Between trips to the big daddy table and the truckers’ corner, the tattooed waiter hovered in front of me on the other side of the counter while I ate, giving me a half leer.

“Any buses to Harrisburg stop here?” I asked. He was just standing there, making me uncomfortable. I figured conversation would lessen the tension in the diner. The truckers, who probably were being boisterous before I came in, were huddled together, giving me looks, and whispering and sniggering among themselves.

“Nope,” the tattooed waiter said.

“I’ll be happy to give you a lift to Harrisburg,” a voice boomed out from the trucker’s corner.

“You ain’t goin’ in the direction of Harrisburg, Sam,” another said. Laughs all around.

“I could lift you, easy,” sniped another voice, followed by sniggers.

“Any place around where I can get a duffle bag,” I asked the tattooed waiter, deciding that it was best just not to get into a conversation with the truckers, although I probably should have just taken the trucker up on the ride, even knowing what it would cost me. I had a strong feeling that time spent here was going to cost me that anyway.

“There’s a consignment shop across the road, next to the gas station,” a voice from the other side of the diner said. A more commanding, assured voice. The voice of “I get what I want.” A little shiver went through my body. This was the kind of man . . . well, this was the kind of man I gravitated to. The information had come from big daddy in the corner.

“Now, ain’t that convenient?” the tattooed waiter said. “Only five buildings here, and all of use to you.”

“Five buildings?” I asked. I looked out the window and saw four, two on this side of the road and two on the other. The gas station and two-story consignment shop on the other side of the road and the diner and motel on this.

“Yep,” he continued, with a leery smile. “The gas station got you here, the consignment shop will get you a new duffle, this here diner fed your stomach, and, if you’d like, I’ll show you the motel next door.”

“Or you can get a ride with me to Harrisburg,” the trucker who had offered the service spoke up.

“Yeah, for a ride of another kind,” another one chimed in. Laughter on that side of the diner. The tattooed waiter just smiled at me. No reaction from the big daddy corner.

“That’s four buildings,” I said.

“You missed the big, rambling one on the other side of the highway bridge?” the tattooed waiter asked. “I figure you can get a job there, if you’ve been just dumped here by that fancy Buick.”

“Thanks for the breakfast,” I said, rising and putting money for it down on the counter, including a generous enough tip not to get any backtalk on that, even if I could ill afford it. “And for the direction to the consignment shop.” I said this to the waiter, not trusting myself to speak directly to big daddy in the corner. He was just the sort of man who only needed to beckon and I’d be there. And this wasn’t the place or time for that.

When I got out of the diner and was looking both ways to cross the road--although there wasn’t much danger of busy traffic out here in the middle of nowhere--I looked north across the bridge over the highway. Sure enough there was a rambling two-story building across the bridge with a high fence around a lot behind in and more semis parked beside it. I could read the sign, a gigantic lit-up neon on top of the roof. It said “Halfway Adult Bookstore.”

The place looked entirely too large to be just a bookstore and video shop. I’d been around the block; I knew what else would be going on there. So, I hadn’t fooled the guys in the diner one bit.

* * * *

“Yes, of course. We have a few right over there. Anything else you need? Anything else I can do for you? I saw you sitting over at Gus’ station. You been abandoned or something?”

God, had everyone in this frickin’ town been watching me? And no women?

“I may need some clothes too until my ride gets back,” I said. “Do you . . . oh, yes, I see the rack over there.” Who was I fooling? If Larry was coming back for me, I wouldn’t need to be buying any more clothes. “But maybe not, depending on how expensive . . .”

“Short of money?” He asked. “Not a problem. There are always adjustments . . . trades.” This made me look at him. Maybe his early forties. Not particularly muscular but not bad looking. Not fat either. No sign of a beer belly or anything. Not fully white, though. There was something else in him. Black? Hispanic? He was giving me a steady look--an assessing one. I don’t think he missed much. The painted nails and the blonde highlights in my long hair. He’d been standing at the door as I crossed the road--like he knew I was coming to him. Had I betrayed something in my walk? So many things to think about in transitioning back and forth: the voice, the walk, the way I held my arms. The men in the diner had picked it out almost immediately. Who would expect them to be so savvy in a backwater like this? Maybe it said something about what went on in this backwater.

So, who was I fooling.

“Maybe you need some underwear?” he asked, giving me a steady look. He was holding up sheer panties, not briefs. “Or maybe something like this?” He held up a slinky red, satin sheath dress.

As they say, the jig was up.

“I’m not sure I can afford any of this,” I said, transitioning to what I sensed he wanted me to be. My stance went into that of a female and I gave him a come-on look. I let my voice go into a higher register. “My suitcase is in the car that hasn’t come back for me yet.” My helpless lass pose.

“And, so, you don’t just need a new duffle bag”--he was helping himself to rummaging around in my slit duffel, not being visibly surprised at some of the items he found--“you could use more clothes and maybe a place to sleep.”

“Yes, probably,” I said. “But I don’t really have enough to pay for--”

“Yes, I think you do,” he said, giving me a meaningful look. “I live in the apartment upstairs--with Gus, who runs the gas station. We’ve got beds up there. I think you can provide more than enough to cover the cost of anything here and a place to sleep if you come upstairs with Gus and me.”

At Kirk’s request--he had told me his name was Kirk, and exchange, having taken the stance he obviously wanted, I told him my name was Angel--I straddled his hips on his bed upstairs, wearing just the red satin shift he’d picked out. He was naked, and his body was fine enough, the cock adequate for the need. He’d given me time to do some makeup, so that I was mostly female for him. He appreciated the part that wasn’t, though, putting his hands on my buttocks and pulling me forward over his chest until, brushing the hem of the shift up, my hard cock was exposed to the attentions of his mouth.

I had already given him a blow job and he was working himself hard again while giving me some attention.

Raising his torso up to me, an arm went around my waist, pushing the shift up to below my tits, his cheek went to my bare belly, and his free hand traveled up to squeeze my tits and pinch my nipples. I gave him the sounds I was sure he wanted to hear. Coaxing my buttocks forward and down, I helped his sheathed cock head center on my lubed and puckered entrance and then, as he gasped and groaned, I descended on his shaft.

His lips went to my nipples, and as we rocked back and forth and he panted, I murmured, “Yes, big boy, fuck me deep. Yes, just like that. Fuck me, fuck me.”

As we rocked against each other I sensed we weren’t alone in the bedroom. The hulk from the gas station--Gus--had entered the room at some point. He was pulling his clothes off and had his meat out. He was erect and, where Kirk was adequate, Gus was much more than adequate. He was big, tall, and heavy--but much of the heaviness was in muscle. Whereas Kirk was more bookish, Gus was just the sort of guy who came into the bar I’d worked at in Harrisburg and paid for hard use of my ass.

He came up on the bed behind me, straddling Kirk’s thighs with his knees. His hands went to my breasts, and he leaned my shoulder blades back into his hairy chest. “I don’t want to wait for a turn,” he murmured in my ear. “Can you--?”

“Yes,” I answered before he finished. He was my kind of guy. I wanted him inside me. Strangely, though, as he pulled the shift off of me in one movement and pushed my chest down onto Kirk’s, causing my buttocks to rise to the need of his slow invasion of me on top of Kirk’s buried shaft, my thoughts went to the commanding presence of the man in the diner--the obvious bid daddy of this tiny burg of Halfway--and fantasies of him being inside me.

Gus began to pump, squeezing my breasts hard, latching onto the side of my neck with his teeth, as Kirk encased my cock in one of his hands and started to stroke me.

“Yes, Daddy, yes. Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

Where I slept that night wasn’t a problem. I was wedged between Kirk and Gus on the bed they apparently shared. I’d been shown a bedroom I could use, but I didn’t use it that night.

* * * *

I stopped out by the road in front of the consignment shop to catch my breath and steel myself for what came next. It hadn’t rained here since the landing of Noah’s ark on the mountain, I didn’t think, and each passing semitruck, entering or exiting I-81 raised dust up to my ankles. That’s all I could see moving hereabouts. Semis. Not that the small groupings of buildings were lifeless. Just that everything was on hold--and watching me. Kirk was standing into the doorway of the consignment shop, watching me as I paused at the road. Gus and the shy Dan were stationed at the gas station window, watching me. The tattooed waiter in the diner was just outside the diner door, back against a window column, one leg bent with the sole of his boot against the diner wall, smoking a cigarette--and watching me. Faces of men--truckers--inside the diner: all were turned to me, watching me.

I wasn’t anyway in one direction today yet. I was half way, my hair pulled back in a pony tail, no facial makeup, but still the lilac nail polish, and I was wearing a tight T-shirt from the consignment shop. Today I had tits that showed. The satchel I’d taken from the consignment shop was stuffed with makeup. I had the red slinky shift and lacy panties folded into the purse as well. Kirk had told me to take anything I wanted from the shop--and to come back to bed.

With a sigh, I set my shoulders and turned and walked toward the bridge over I-81--headed for that flashing neon Halfway Adult Bookstore sign beckoning from across the bridge.

Over breakfast Kirk confirmed my assumption that there was more going on at the bookstore than books--that there was a gay bar behind the store front and rooms upstairs. He said this was the place that men who wanted men gathered from all over central Pennsylvania. This had come out when I remarked that I hadn’t seen any women around here yet.

“You wouldn’t,” he’d answered. “Half way is strictly a man’s world. But half men are welcome here too--especially welcome,” he’d been quick to add.

I’d asked about work around here and places to stay.

“Mostly small farms around here,” he said. “Pretty self-sufficient. You could work part time right here in the shop, but there’s not much need for extra help. You can, of course, bunk out upstairs for as long as you want. But if I was you . . . and knowing now what you’re prepared to do for a man . . . well, I’d go over to the other side of the bridge. They’d eat you up over there, I’m sure. That’s where you could make money. Afternoons here in the store; evenings over there.”

“You say they have a bar going?”

“Yep, they sure do.”

“And entertainment? I worked the pole in some bars in Harrisburg.”

“Then you’d find work over there. Just assert yourself and what you have to offer in the storefront and I’m sure they’d be eager to show you what’s happening in back. But to work there, you have to pass muster with Mr. Kincaid.”

“Mr. Kincaid? Who’s he?”

“He owns the operation over there. Hell, he owns all of the operations here. The rest of us just work for him. You want to work here, you have to work for him too. And work hard for him. But whatever you do, don’t let him take you back to his farm.”

Ah, the big daddy I saw in the diner, I thought. Yeah I could work for him. “What’s at his farm I wouldn’t like?”

“The same that he’ll give you a taste of in deciding to hire you. The same, but much more. Young men who go out to his farm with him never come back--at least not to here.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

And I did keep it in mind all the time I was walking toward the bookstore. I paused in the middle of the bridge spanning I-81, and stood there, looking down on the traffic roaring past. Semis. A whole bunch of semis. But cars too. I found myself picking out the Buicks and wondering about Larry. Wondering if he was having second thoughts and would come back for me. I found myself leaning over the parapet, thinking about how easy it would be just to pitch over the side into oncoming traffic. Change it all here. Not being half of anything anymore. Being a whole, mangled corpse. Visions of Larry coming back to me and coming upon my crumpled body in the middle of the roadway below. He’d be sorry. Yeah, right.

What scared me was that I found that attractive--a viable option.

I thought about this Mr. Kincaid. I had dreamed of the man in the diner fucking me while Kirk and Gus were doing that last night. Being given the hint that he was demanding, taxing, in sex by Kirk didn’t change my attraction to him. Rather the opposite. That scared me too.

Nearly everything scared me in my life of half this, half that. But, hell, I found that attractive too.

I turned and marched on to the bookstore.

The store part itself didn’t take up much room. It was obvious that there was more going on here behind the scenes. The parking lot was full of semis and yet I was the only one in the store, other than the clerk, when I entered. The guy, a gawky nondescript guy other than the big biceps and covering tattoos, was hunched over the counter, staring into a muscle-builder magazine when I entered. He looked up and suddenly was all attention.

“Yes, may I help you?” he asked, giving the impression that he would move mountains to help me.

“I’m looking for work,” I answered. “I dance the pole in Harrisburg, was dropped here without ongoing prospects, and have been told there might be work for me in whatever is behind this store.” I had decided not to start off with any lies. They quickly caught up with you in a dive like this.

“That’s a distinct possibility,” the guy answered, giving me a big grin and almost whistling for me. “Not my call, though. Come on to the back. You’re in luck. Mr. Kincaid is here.”

“You have a john I can use before I go back?” I asked.

“Over in the corner. You want company?” We both knew what he was proposing--and that he was just flirting. The way he was treating me like visiting royalty pretty much revealed that he knew I was above his pay grade in terms of servicing.

I had been prepared to work my way past the bookstore clerk if that was necessary, but it apparently wasn’t necessary, so I just smiled and said, “No thanks.” But I added, “Maybe later.” No sense burning any bridges.

I spent several minutes in the john becoming fully Angel, and, when I came out with my hair down, my face made up, and wearing the panties and the red satin shift, the clerk’s eyes bugged out and he actually did whistle.

“God damn,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Can you show me how to get into the bar?” I asked, using my breathy Angel voice, cultivated from watching numerous Marilyn Monroe movies.

“God Damn,” was all he was able to say, but he did usher me to a door at the back of the store that was shielded by a beaded curtain. That opened to a smoky room, with a low hub bub of voices coming from a smattering of men hunched over tables. Sitting alone at a table, facing the room, at one end of a bar, was the same man I’d seen in the diner. Undoubtedly Mr. Kincaid.

All sound stopped for a few seconds when I appeared at the door and then it started again in earnest.

The clerk went over to Kincaid to tell him what I was interested in doing for this operation, and Kincaid waved me over to his table.

“Russ Kincaid,” he said, as I sauntered over to the table, remembering to use my hips. He didn’t ask me to sit down, so I stood there, letting his eyes undress and ravish me. “I understand you’re an entertainer and looking for a job.”

“I’m Angel,” I answered. “Yes, I’d like to do a gig here. I’ve danced the pole at some bars in Harrisburg. As you no doubt figured out, I was stranded here. Need to make some transportation money.”

“You dance the pole? And, tell me Angel, do you lay on your back and open our legs too for a cut of the profit?”


“Tell you what. I’ll give you a trial. Go over there and pick your music out on the juke box and do fifteen minutes of dancing on the stage there. Any of these guys who wants to take you upstairs afterward, you’ll get half. What they pay will depend on demand and what I think they can afford. After that there will be a private audition with me, though, to determine whether you come back tonight for a full session.”

“Sounds fair to me.” I didn’t bother to ask how much half of a fuck session would be. I was lucky to get half, this being an audition and all. And maybe there wouldn’t be any takers.

As I moved over to the juke box, though, the chance of there being takers was increasing alarmingly. The clerk in the bookstore must have made some phone calls, because there suddenly were about twenty men--of all ages and sizes and shapes--gathering around the stage, with its solitary pole.

I danced the pole, briefly in the red sheath, but then in just the panties for a half hour or more. After the first song, the crowd was asking for more and someone was at the juke box bringing up another song. Kincaid didn’t stop the show until after the sixth song and until after men stopped drifting back to his table to consult with him.

Afterward, the bartender ushered me upstairs to a room with a bed, a straight chair, and a dresser, and told me that I might as well lay on my back at the foot of the bed, strip off the panties, and open my legs.

Wham bang, right after that a quick succession of four guys were shown into the room, their hard dongs already exposed, and got right down to the business of fucking me--two in the missionary position and two doggy style. They must have been on a time clock, because there was little talking and they all worked to an ejaculation in less than fifteen minutes each.

Afterward the bartender reappeared, told me to put the panties and shift on again, handed me $200 in cash, and told me that Mr. Kincaid was waiting in his car out back.

“He’s not doing it here?” I asked, afraid that he was going to take me out to his farm--where Kirk had warned me not to go.

“He has a room he likes to use at the motel across the highway,” the bartender said.

Kincaid drove a fancy Mercedes. He said nothing in the short ride, but when we got to the motel, instead of going immediately inside, he pulled my face down into his lap and made me give him a blow job. His cock was long and thick. Somehow I’d known it would be.

Dan from over at the gas station was at the desk in the motel office when we entered. His eyes went big and his face revealed a look of concern when he saw me enter with Kincaid.

“I’ll take the key to room 8, Dan,” Kincaid said.

“Yes, Mr. Kincaid,” Dan said. As he turned to take the key off the rack, he flashed me a warning look. I was touched that there was someone--anyone--who cared what happened to me.

In the room, which I realized Kincaid kept and prepared for just this sort of session, the big hunk beat the hell out of me before fucking me. As the door clicked shut, locked, he caught my cheek in an unexpected backswing that sent me reeling across the room and landing belly over the foot of the bed. He pulled me up by my hair, spun me around, and punched me in the stomach. I doubled over, and he pulled me up by my hair again and slapped me twice.

None of it was full force, but I was fully cowed and malleable now, just going into whatever position he wanted and giving him anything he wanted. What he first wanted was to rip off the shift and panties, force me down on all fours on the carpet, mount me, and fuck me hard. His hands went to my throat, and as he rhythmically pumped me deep, the pressure of his hands took me to the brink of unconsciousness and back until, as he gushed his cum, he didn’t release the pressure and I blacked out.

I woke to the sound and the feel of the lashes on my back and buttocks. I was spread-eagled, belly down, on the bed, my wrists and ankles restrained at all four corners of the bed. He lashed me with the hand whip until I was fully awake and moaning and begging him to fuck me again. I much preferred that to this. When he came down on top of me, entered me, and began to pump, I whimpered the, “Yes, Yes, fuck me. Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me hard,” that I knew he wanted to hear.

I must have passed the audition, because when he was done, had dressed, and released my restraints, he said, “You start at the bar tomorrow night at 8:00 p.m. The room you were in there is yours to sleep in. You may use this room until then. Get plenty of rest.”

And then he was gone. I heard the powerful motor of his Mercedes start up and then silence. I lay there, assessing the damage, which wasn’t all that much. Some welts and bruises. Once started, Kincaid gave me the impression that he was holding himself in check for now, but that he had so much more to give of what turned him on. I was still money in the bank to him now. I pulled myself up into a fetal position and moaned deeply.

“Are you OK?”

I turned my face toward the door to the room. Dan was standing there, looking very concerned.

“I will be,” I answered in a weary voice. “Maybe in a hundred years.”

“I have something that can help. Some salve. But it’s over in my room behind the garage. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll go over and get it and--”

“No, not here,” I muttered. “I don’t want to spend any more time in this room than I have to.”

“I understand,” Dan said. His voice was gentle and it was as if he really did understand--that this was a common occurrence here in Halfway. Suddenly, the little village wasn’t benign anymore. I had now met the owner, the führer of the town.

“Can we go to the salve?” I asked, sitting up on the side of the bed, with effort. “In my satchel there. my shirt and trousers, please.”

With trembling hands, Dan helped me to dress. He blushed as he touched tender skin. I knew what he’d like to have. I also knew that he probably was the only man in town who wouldn’t simply take it given the opportunity and power to.

He was just as sensitive in applying the salve to my back and buttocks when we were sitting on the single bed in the small room he had off the back of the garage across the road from the motel. He clucked and groaned as he rubbed on the cream as if the wounds, the slight pain--I didn’t want to overrepresent how much real damage Kincaid had done--were his as much as mine.

When he was done, I slid down onto my knees on the floor, pressing in between his knees.

He looked down at me, paralyzed with shock, a rumbling coming up from deep inside him, as I unzipped him and fished out his cock. He was hard, of course, and it was a very nice cock, maybe the nicest physical attribute of him. I rubbed the shaft against my cheeks and looked up and gave him a saucy look.

“God . . . no . . . you don’t have to do this,” he stammered, his face contorted and beet red.

“That’s why I’m doing it,” I said, “because I don’t have to. I’m doing it because I want to.”

He groaned and laced his fingers into my hair at the back of my head. There was a momentary pull of my head, as if he wanted to pull me away, but then I had his cock in my mouth and was sucking hard on his bulb. With a shudder, all of the tension went out of him, his hands cupping my head began to fall into the rhythm I was establishing of my lips gliding up and down his shaft, and he moaned in sheer ecstasy.

I didn’t have to, and Dan certainly didn’t expect me to, but I stretched out on his bed on my back then and let him explore my body with his hands at will--which he did at great length. He didn’t suck me off, but he did stroke me to an ejaculation, and I gave him an award-winning performance with that, arching my back, writhing my hips against the slow pumping of his hand, grasping his elbow with my hand, whimpering for him, and, upon ejaculation, crying out for him to fuck me as I shot my load.

With coaxing, he took me in a side split from behind, and as long as he was behind me I could imagine it was the hunkiest of Hollywood actors mining my channel. There was nothing wrong with the size of his cock and what he could do with it. There was a brief awkwardness when I realized he had nothing in the room in the way of lube or condoms, but I was able to supply them from my satchel.

He fucked me slowly, shyly, continually asking me if it was good for me--if anything else he could do would be better. And it was good for me--especially when compared with the fast and furious fifteen-minute-max pokes by the truck drivers in the room over the bar on the other side of the bridge.

He apologized when he was finished and said he had to get back to the motel.

“No need to apologize. I wanted you,” I said. “You took care of me with the salve. And then you really took care of me.” He blushed at that. “Can I stay here tonight?” I asked, it suddenly occurring to me that the three places in this clutch of buildings that I now had rooms--the consignment store, the bar, and the motel--were all places I didn’t want to be tonight.

“I don’t know,” he stammered. “I’m nothing like what you--”

“I want to spend the night here, with you, in this bed,” I said.

This evoked a small smile, a deepening of the blush, and the hanging of his head. “Of course you can stay here tonight,” he said. He turned and headed for the door, but then stopped, and turned back to me. “And whenever you want to leave here, I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go. I got a car right next to the room here.”

I found that touching. After he’d gone and I’d showered in his small bathroom, I left to show up again at the consignment store next door. I’d promised to work a short shift there, and that’s where the rest of my clothes and stuff were.

I had to laugh when I left his room and got a look at his ride. It was an old Buick LeSabre. I had arrived here in a new Buick and chances were good I’d leave in an old Buick. There was probably some irony in that, but I didn’t want to think about that just then. At least it wasn’t a semitrailer.

* * * *

I asked the bartender at the club what the usual lifespan of a pole dancer and rent boy at the club was, and he said “about two weeks.” Thus, when at the two-week mark Julio, a cute little Hispanic trick, showed up to share the duty with me and another Hispanic, Juan, who had been here before and seemed a permanent fixture at the place, I wasn’t surprised.

What surprised me more was how extensive Kincaid’s holdings were. He had an “On the Road” special posted on the board behind the door into the bar, and I hadn’t been working at the club for more than three days when I learned what that meant.

“This here is Mick,” the bartender cum club manager told me one evening. “You’ll be driving with him to near Philly to a truck plaza where Mr. Kincaid owns another club like this. He’ll leave you there and you’ll work the pole there until there’s another ‘On the Road’ special from there back to here--or to near Harrisburg, where Mr. Kincaid has a club at another truck plaza. Got that?”

“But what’s in it for Mick, here?” I asked. “What’s so special about the special?” Mick was a big bruiser of a bearded mountain-man type who looked heavy but most of it was in muscle. He was maybe forty, tricked out in cowboy duds. He was leering at me like he would try to eat me in two bites.

“Mick here will have privileges with you between here and where he takes you and for three hours after delivery.”

Mick proved to be quite virile and a quick reloader. He had his money’s worth in the compartment behind the cab of his semi before he’d even driven out of the club’s parking lot. He stopped four times between here and Philly and banged the hell out of me in the back of the cab.

In those two weeks I did an “On the Road” turnabout once to both the Philly and the Harrisburg ends. I usually, when in Halfway, slept in the room above the bar where I serviced men. Sometimes I just had to get out of the environment, and then I’d go to Dan in his room behind the gas station. He was always happy to see me. And I was happy to be with him too. He never got over the “lucky me” aspect. He’d been to massage school before becoming a “little bit of everything” at the Halfway gas station and motel, and whenever I came to him, full of tension from what I had to give men at the club, he relaxed me with a full-body massage before we had sex. He had magical hands, and I invariably had an ejaculation before we got to the main bout.

And when we did get to the main bout it was unlike having sex with any of the men at this club or the ones I’d had sex with before--even Larry. Dan improved in expertise with each successive fuck, and I quickly forgot he was no physical beauty because what he could do with his hands, tongue, and dick were a thing of beauty in themselves. Besides, he noticeably upgraded his wardrobe and was hitting the antiacne drugs hard since I arrived.

I had encounters with Kirk and Gus, too, the pair living above the consignment shop, but only on a couple of occasions. Being doubled took something out of me.

During the two weeks, Kincaid continued to show up at the club of evenings and oversee all that transpired. I could sense his eyes on me whenever I danced the pole and they followed me as I ascended the stairs with a john tagging behind me. I was waiting in fear and anticipation for the time he’d call me to go with him--and not just to the motel. When, as Kirk had warned me, that he’d tell me he wanted to drive me out to his farm.

That declaration came shortly after Julio was added to the roster of pole dancers, at the end of my first two weeks at the club.

As I’d come downstairs from servicing a john and was passing his table, Kincaid reached out and grabbed me by the wrist. “Tonight I want to take you home with me.”

A shudder went up my spine. I knew it was a command, not a request. “Sure thing, Mr. Kincaid,” I answered, and I turned from him so that he couldn’t see the fear and concern in my face and moved toward the stage.

I didn’t make it to the stage. Another hand shot out as I was moving between the tables, and I looked around, in shock, to see that the hand belonged to . . . Larry.

“Do you have to go back on stage just now, or can we talk for a few minutes?”

“I have a few minutes,” I said, as I tried to control myself, still upset from the summons to Kincaid’s farm after the show tonight and wondering how I was going to get out of that. I sat down at Larry’s table. “Buy me a beer or I can’t be sitting with you,” I said. “And when the bartender comes over, slip him an extra twenty or I’ll have to leave.”

It felt good to make Larry pay to have to talk to me.

“I’ve missed you,” he said when the bartender had been satisfied and we both had fresh beers. I didn’t touch mine. I didn’t want a beer. I needed some sort of escape plan. The irony didn’t escape me that Larry was here. He wouldn’t have come back, I didn’t think, unless he wanted to pick up with me again.

“On your way back to Harrisburg?” I asked. “I wasn’t aware that they’d called a special legislative session.”

“They haven’t,” he responded. “I came from Philadelphia and am returning there--with you, I hope. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have left you here--to have to be doing this.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” I answered. I wasn’t going to let him off the hook on that.

“I asked about you at the gas station and they told me you worked here. They remembered me letting you off there.”

“Of course they would,” I snapped at him. “It’s not like people get abandoned on their doorstep every day of the week here.”

“I said I was sorry. This isn’t going well.”

“Did you expect me to be all smiley face? You left me with nothing. Even took my suitcase. I had to rebuild here from nothing.”

“I’ve missed you and know it was my fault--that I was in the wrong. I’ve come back to beg you to come to Philadelphia. To live with me in my apartment.”

“Have you consulted with your wife and children on that--or the parents you say you live with?”

“There’s none of that in Philadelphia. I just didn’t know if I wanted to be living with a man openly--a half man, a transvestite. I’m not out; you know I’m not. Now, having tried to make it without you, I know that it doesn’t matter. I need you. We can make it work.”

“I don’t know. I’ll never know when the next time is coming that you’ll abandon me somewhere.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He looked so hopeful. And it was a way out--a miracle of a convenience coming right at the right time, like this was some sort of Hollywood movie script. Everything coming together neatly in the end, and the happy couple riding off into the sunset in a new Buick to enjoy the happy ever after.

“You have your car here?”

“Yes, I’m parked out front.”

“Let me get my things together then, and I’ll meet you out there at your car in a few minutes.”

I stood up from the table and prepared to walk away, but his hand shot out and he momentarily arrested my movement. He looked up at me with grateful, puppy dog eyes. “I’ll treat you right this time, baby. It all will work out for the best. Trust me.”

“I’m sure it will all work out for the best,” I answered. As far as trusting him, though . . .

When I’d pulled what little I had together in the duffle I’d paid for in servicing two weeks previously, I left by the rear staircase and out the back of the building. Coming around the side of the building, I peeked around the corner and was able to pick out Larry’s Buick. He was sitting in the driver’s seat with his eyes glued to the front entrance of the place, assuming, I guess that I’d exit through that door.

Keeping semitrailer trucks between the Buick and me, I went out to the road, walked hurriedly across the bridge, and to the other side of Halfway.

Dan’s eyes lit up when he saw me enter the door to his room behind the gas station.

“Get up and get dressed, Dan,” I said. “It’s time for you to give me that ride back to Harrisburg.”

“Sure thing, Angel,” he said, standing up immediately and reaching out to the chair beside the bed where he had his jeans and shirt folded. No argument and no hesitation. I could see that he was distressed, though, and disappointed.

“If you want, you could scrape together anything that you want to keep, and end up in Harrisburg with me,” I said. “I’m sure you can get a job there that’s better than you have here--maybe as a masseur. You have magic hands.”

No hesitation there, either. His face lit up like a Christmas tree. I had no doubt what he wanted to do but he still asked, almost as if in disbelief, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Dan, I’m very sure,” I answered. And I was. It was time for me to settle down and to go more than half way in some direction too.



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