My summer of sex with Cowboy

Chapter 21

Driving back to Manhattan Thursday morning, I'm trying to pinpoint exactly when I lost my mind. It's been about a month now since I let myself be taken advantage of by anyone who felt like it. As near as I can figure it, I've been out of my mind since that chance encounter with the evil Richard. My latest embarrassment was last night with the old pervert

I want to help Bruce, but is that enough reason to spend a night with that oddball old man who apparently abuses misguided young gay guys? I'm not a misguided young gay guy, but he thought I was because I misrepresented myself as one. Not only that, what's my excuse for my earlier off-the-wall behavior pretending I wanted to be a pussy boy? I'm not falling back, blaming my behavior on Ronny's death, claiming it caused me to have some breakdown. 

Hmm, but going totally off the rails is a kind of breakdown. Without my leader Ronny, I went helter-skelter into my own adventure, starting with Richard, then Bruce, and that's turned to shit. Driving up to the hotel, I put self-criticism on hold, handing off the car to the valet parking kid; I go right up to the suite and then into the bathroom to do everything I didn't do this morning at crazy Frederick's house. 

Twenty minutes later, I feel a little better, showered and dressed in clean clothes. Checking the time on my cell phone, I see a text from Cowboy. 'Bro, Lee and I are doing the NYC sightseeing stuff today. Can we have dinner together tonight? I miss you; Lee does, too. Love, C.' Wow, I miss him too. I text back, 'I miss you guys too. You're on for dinner. Love, Zach.' 

Gee, that was sweet of Cowboy. I will not let him down! 

Keeping busy, I bundle the boys' and my dirty clothes and call laundry to have it picked up. Then, getting the ticket for my BMW from the bureau. I need it to get my car that's parked in the hotel's garage. Bringing the satchel with Cowboy's money, I return to the valet desk and give the kid twenty dollars and the parking claim ticket, telling him I need something from my car.

Smoking a cigarette, I wait fifteen minutes before the kid returns with the car. When he walks away, I put the satchel in the trunk under the spare tire in the locked box my money is in, motion for the kid to return, give him another twenty, and tell him to park it again. He gives me a new ticket, thanking me profusely for the two twenties, and then drives my car back to the garage. 

Obviously, my money in the trunk is why I didn't drive my car back and forth to Brooklyn. I could never have parked it on a side street overnight as I did the rental car. And, now, there is an extra thirty-five hundred dollars in cash, plus a cashier's check for twenty-five thousand in the trunk. 

Okay, I've taken care of those loose ends; I can return to my self-criticism. I want to think I was using common sense the first couple of months after Ronny's death, doing okay looking out for Cowboy and myself. Then, because of happenstance, I met Richard.  I would never have had the chance to get involved with the pussy boy stuff if Cowboy and Lee hadn't become boyfriends. I'd only planned on being in Atlantic City for two or three nights to gamble. I was bored, ya know?

Frankly, most of my pathetic behavior resulted from my infatuation with Bruce. That's the only reason I did the dumb-ass training every day... to be with Bruce. That infatuation is also why I did that awful stuff with Frederic last night. Love makes a person crazy enough to do crazy things, except I'm not in love with Bruce. Well, it was definitely infatuation at first, but then maybe I fell in love with him later. Who the hell knows what love is, anyhow? A million poets have tried to describe it in a million different ways. There are so many different ways anyone can fit themselves into one of the million love scenarios if they choose to believe they're in love. 

Whenever I attempt to analyze anything, I come to the same conclusion: What the hell difference does it make? It is what it is, and the bottom line is, I'm going to get inside that fucked up club to ask Bruce if he's had enough abuse yet? If he has, I'll take him out of there. That's my mission, and being on a mission is something I understand after four long years as a Navy Seal. If Bruce says no, he wants to be a pussy boy forever, then I'm done with this whole mess. 

So, my mission is to give Bruce a choice. He's had minimal opportunities in his sorry life to have a choice, so I will give him a chance to choose between his current putrid situation or joining the real world running a small business I'll fund to get it started. 

Then, when I'm done with this regrettable series of events, and I will be done with it one way or another tonight, that's the end for me! I'm done with it, and no one in the world except me, Bruce, and the pussy boy group will ever know of my embarrassing behavior in all of this. 

That's right; tomorrow, I start doing things appropriate for my advanced age and financial situation. I don't know what that will be at this exact moment, but it won't be humiliating. Maybe I'll do some volunteer work, or maybe I'll stay on the sidelines and babysit Cowboy until he and Lee go off to their separate universities in two months. Then I'll decide what to do with my life.
 Jesus, I'm tired of beating myself up. Haha, ya know what? Seriously, I could go for another trip in that van with the pussy boy with the small dick in the club's parking, Dickie! He was cool. Well, yeah, I've never implied I'm giving up sex. I need to salvage something out of this fiasco, and my enjoyment of getting fucked is a major rediscovery. The idea of being someone's bottom during sex was blanked from my mind the four years I was a Seal. Now I'm able to enjoy it again.       

So, until dinner with the boys tonight, what do I do? I decide to lie on the sofa and go to sleep. It's one-thirty when I wake up feeling groggy. Sitting up, I rub my eyes and then wash up in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I've got another headache, but when was the last time I ate anything? No wonder I have a headache with all the smoking I've been doing and that horrible night drinking with sicko Frederick. Oh, yeah, I had about some cold shrimp last night, but that's all I've eaten in the last twenty-four hours. 

I needed a good meal, so I went to the hotel's main dining room and got seated right away. Rejecting the urge to have a cocktail, I ordered iced tea with a London broil dinner, two vegetables, and a salad. Feeling revitalized, I changed into a swimsuit and T-shirt, ordered a limo, and rode to Coney Island. 

Getting out of the limo, I rent a beach chair and spend two hours enjoying the weather and relaxing. Needing exercise, I abandon the chair and swim in the ocean, out further than the bathers for a half-hour. It's an energetic swim, not some casual half-floating waste of time, and I'm exhausted when I finally come out of the water—exhausted in a good way, with blood flowing and my heart pounding. Yes, I need to get back into a regular workout routine and get my life back together!

Seeing my chair still there, I plopped down on it and dried off in the sun. Then, a ride back in the limo with a too talkative driver. The driver was the only negative all afternoon. 

After that excellent afternoon, I get back to the suite at five fifteen and take another shower. Dried and dressed, I see another text from Cowboy: 'We're running late, bro. Is an eight o'clock dinner okay?' 

That text came through while I was in the shower. I texted back that, of course, it was, and then made eight o'clock reservations at Eleven Madison Park; I was shocked I got a reservation because they're usually booked up weeks in advance. I expected they'd laugh at me, saying the next open reservation is next Monday night at five-thirty.

Ronny and I always had dinner there when we were in NYC. It serves American and French cuisine, the two best kinds of cuisine, if you ask me. 

Anyway, that's taken care of. Now, if they'll let us dine at Eleven Madison Park dressed casually, we're all set. Of course, Cowboy wouldn't care if we ate at the first restaurant we came to while walking down Park Avenue. It's me who wants to visit a favorite restaurant from my past. Casual dress has been accepted pretty much everywhere for ten years now, but my old man still wears a suit and tie when eating out at a fancy upscale restaurant. I like that he does that. Yeah, dear old Mac. I'm going to say hi to him sometime this summer. I'll dress up and go out to dinner with Mac.

The boys burst into the suite looking tan and disheveled at six-forty-five. Lee's clutching a small facsimile of the Statue of Liberty, a knickknack from the gift shop there. Cowboy hugs me, saying, "We went to the top, and cornball Lee wanted a memento. Embarrassing, huh?" I go, "No, not at all! How ya doing, Lee?" 

He says, "I'm having the best summer of my life; that's how I'm doing." Cowboy goes, "We're starving. Where are we eating, Zach?" 

I tell them, and they shrug, not knowing any better. Lee says, "Carson wants to shower with me because we're short on time." Cowboy goes, "Yeah, so can we use the bathroom in your bedroom, Zach? That shower is much bigger than ours."

Ah, to be young again. I go, "Of course you can." Off they go, leaving me to think about the few times Cowboy and I showered together... very sexy showers. 

The dinner is everything I thought it would be. The rack of lamb was perfection, their au gratin potatoes delicious, peeled asparagus with hollandaise sauce, everything was great. The guys talked about their day, making good-natured fun of each other, laughing, seemingly without a care in the world. It mostly kept my mind off what I was doing tonight, but it was there hanging over my head just the same.

What I'm about to do is exciting in a way, dangerous too, but not as if I could get arrested because they're not about to get the police involved. Dangerous because their security staff will be aggressive in doing their job, not wanting to look ineffective. I'm not bringing my gun, although I have a license for one in New York State. If I need a gun, forget about it. I'd approach it a different way. At the club, I'm going to play along with sicko Frederick while looking for the opportunity to visit upstairs at the so-called funhouse; then, I'll see.

Heh-heh, after I cause a bit of a raucous getting Bruce out of there, I hope Frederick gets in trouble for bringing me in as his guest; that would be a bonus. We finish dinner and are back at the hotel, where the boys decide to stay in the suite tonight to continue their video game competition. I told them at dinner we were leaving tomorrow for Atlantic City, and they were fine with that. They've done everything they wanted to in the Big Apple and now want to get back to the beach and boardwalk. So, that works for them and me.

Using the excuse I've got a date tonight, I leave at nine-thirty. And... so it begins. 

I get the rental car from the valet and head for Brooklyn. I'm amazingly calm about the whole thing, but I'm in a pissed-off mood, too, which is the attitude I need. I'm royally pissed off that circumstances make it necessary for me to do this. I'm pissed off at the pussy boy's organization, pissed off at Richard, and pissed off this shit club catering to perverts like Frederick. 

When I get to the club and park the car up the street, I'm ready to smack somebody. Instead, I need to get in character as a dufus loser who's infatuated by that old pervert Frederick.

I have ten minutes to kill, so I smoke a cigarette, then pop some Tic Tac mints and walk down the block from where I allegedly live to the parking lot. He's waiting, tapping his foot and holding something in his hand, his back to me when I ask, "Am I late, sir?" 

He turns around with a big smile and goes, "No, my dear boy, you're right on time. I got here early, and look what I've got for you." He holds up a big black dog collar with metal studs... and a leash. Swell.

He approaches me, holds my head between his hands, the dog collar against my cheek, and gives me a tongue-infused kiss that lasts three years, or probably more like five seconds. He smells like expensive cologne, but his tongue tastes like vodka. 

He says, "Stand up straight, Sonny, and lift your chin; I'll put your sexy dog collar on." 

Yes, I do need to lift my chin as this fucking thing is five inches wide and thick. When he's got it fastened around my neck, he giggles, saying, "I get a hard-on when my boys are on a leash," and he clicks on the leash, pulls on it, and says, "Walk a little behind me, unless I pull you up next to me to show you off."

We begin walking out of the parking lot as a car pulls in. The man on the passenger side says, "Ou-whee, that's a big dog you got there, Straton!" 
Frederick says, "Yes, he is, Mulligan," then, as we walk away, he says to me, "That queen always calls me by my last name, so I refer to him by his last name. Give him a taste of his own medicine." 

Yeah, that'll show him. A sixty-five-year-old pervert still thinking like a middle school twit.

There's a guy at the big black front door, but not the baldheaded guy I saw at the door yesterday afternoon. This guy is middle-aged, wearing a suit, and he does not have a pussy boy haircut. He has long black hair that he combs straight back. He politely asks, "Name and membership badge, please." 

Frederick gives his name and flashes a badge the way a police detective flashes his badge. It's in like a wallet. Jesus, wow-whee, ain't we cool! The man is checking his computer tablet, then says, "Yes, Mr. Straton, you have a guest this evening. You're good to go, but only one more guest this month. Just a polite heads-up. Have a nice evening, sir."

Sir pulls on my leash, and I follow him inside. It's a normal-looking hallway, nothing special, except it's thirty feet long. I hear the beat of electronic club music, which surprises me because I assumed this was mostly an old gay guy's club. Of course, old gay guys can like electronic-style club music, too, I suppose.

Ten feet down the hall, there are living rooms set ups with large TVs. After that, the three doors on each side have a 'PRIVATE' sign on each numbered door, one through six. Frederick says, "I have a reservation for room five at eleven-thirty, Sonny. I know how eager you can get for my big penis, but that was the earliest room and time available, and I called right after you left this morning. Those rooms are in demand, mostly for members who've reserved pussy boys to screw."

On the right is a restaurant with late dinners still eating. Then, further up on the right is a sign that says FUNHOUSE, and stairs lead up a floor. There's a lavatory sign, and finally, through swinging doors at the end of the hall, we go into a big bar. The bar is U-shaped, and inside the actual bar is a U-shaped stage with two pussy boys dancing around two brass poles the way girls do it in certain kinds of straight bars. Both boys are naked, and they both have cock rings on. 

The younger pussy boy has a small three-inch hard, shiny boner. He looks embarrassed, perhaps about his small boner, while the other naked dancer has a more normal five-inch one, both their balls lifted unnaturally by the wide cock rings. They're smiling as hard as possible, but neither is especially attractive. The small-dick younger one looks about nineteen, and the other older one is maybe twenty-three. There are mocking comments about the tiny dick pussy boy, and his face is scarlet. The boorish behavior of these uncouth gay men mocking the poor small-dick pussy boy makes me want to smack them. 

Frederick says, "Look at those dancers, Sonny. That one has almost no cocks at all, but I'll bet you'd like to get it in your mouth anyway, huh." 

Speaking of boorish behavior! I mumble, "What." 

I'm not the only one on a leash. There are others, and Omigod, one guy on a leash, has his cock sticking out an opening at the crotch of his jumpsuit. His cock is eight inches of hardwood, so a cock ring is definitely in play, but it's hidden in his pink jumpsuit. He does not look happy, and his master just tugged on his leash and said something angrily to him. None of these guys are attractive. Where are the cute pussy boys?

Many members are over fifty years old here, but some are younger, too; a few could be in their twenties. Nodding at a couple of empty seats at the bar, Frederick yanks on my leash, so I sit as he's saying, "Some of these queens make their boy stand next to them or get on all fours at their feet when they're at the bar. You're lucky you're with me." 

Then he orders two brandy and sodas with lots of ice, saying to the bartender, "And, Charlie, don't get carried away with the soda." The bartender smiles and says, "You got it."

It's hard for me to drink the fucking drink because the collar keeps my head up, but I want alcohol tonight, so I make it work, although some drips down my chin. Frederick uses a cocktail napkin to wipe roughly at the dripping brandy, saying, "Don't get brandy on your collar, for Christ's sake! It'll stain it. My previous slave boy, Button, wore that collar for two years without getting a thing on it!" 

He gets these fits of anger, and then he's like, "Oh, don't pay any attention to grumpy old me," and he puts his arms around me and rocks me almost off the barstool, saying, "It's going to be a lot of work shaping you up, but it'll be fun too. When I spank you, you're gonna be surprised at how strong I am, and in the early days, there will be lots of spanking. That's half the fun. Oh my, I've had some of the best orgasms of my life spanking my slave boys. Thinking about that is getting me hard right now." 

Jesus!

Men begin coming over, curious to see what old Frederick has here. He bullshits them, saying I'm his slave boy, and I have been for three months, but he's been hesitant to bring me out because I'm timid, and, "Sonny is not fully integrated into the slave/master dynamic. He hangs on me all day, wanting attention." 

One gay-acting little man with a shiny bald head says, "If he's too much trouble for you, Frederick, I'll take him off your hands." Frederick goes, "You wish, you old faggot. I know what you did to that Irish immigrant boy. I'd never subject Sonny to that."

The very gay-acting little man says, "He needed lots of discipline; that's why Timmy was put in a closet. Punishment is what that was about. He back-talked, and every other word out of his mouth was fuck this, fuck that, go fuck yourself, and it was fuck, fuck, fuck." 

The angry little man spits saliva out, lisping and talking too fast. I lean away from him to avoid the spray. They go back and forth until the little man waves his limp-wristed hand in disgust and leaves. Others come over to ogle me, and Frederick repeats his lies about me being with him for months. I haven't spoken a word since we got here. We're on our third brandy and soda when Frederick says, "C'mon, Sonny, I need to visit the little boy's room." 

That's precisely what I've been waiting to hear.

In the bathroom, I finally speak. "Sir, I'm embarrassed to say I need to do number two." 

He's furious, "You should have taken care of that at home!" I look forlorn, mumbling, "I know, and I  tried but couldn't." 

He shouts, "Use a fucking laxative, you stupid boy." Then, "Oh, never mind. You don't know anything, but you will. And you'll be getting your first punishment spanking, a good hard one, before bed tonight. Tomorrow, you'll take the strong castor oil laxative I'll give you, and..." He stops because he needs to adjust his junk. He's getting hard just thinking about punishing me. Sorry to disappoint you, you sick fuck, but you won't be seeing me again after you take your piss...

He sticks his ass out and lifts a leg getting his dick to the side. He's making that disgusting ball adjustment, and, as usual, he lets out a long bubbling fart and giggles, then goes, "How about that fart?" giggling again. Then, getting somber, he adds, "Anyway, after a castor oil laxative, you'll never make this mistake again." He's rough, yanking on the least before taking it off, grumpily saying, "Wet some paper towels to take in there with you for wiping yourself. I want a very clean pussy to fuck." 

"Thank you, sir. I'll have the cleanest pussy you ever saw."

As Frederick takes a piss, I take my time wetting a few paper towels. Going into a toilet stall, I click the lock as he washes his hands, telling me, "Do not forget to wash your hands."

"No, sir." Then, as he walks by the stall, he says, "When you're done, you go out this door, and it's a right turn to the bar. Don't get lost." I hear the door swinging closed as I'm unbuckling the dog collar. Dropping the leather collar in the toilet and flushing, I mutter, "I hope that doesn't leave a stain."  

Out the door, I turn left and walk to the FUNHOUSE sign and then up the stairs. At the landing halfway up the stairs, there's a not-fun-looking man about thirty who doesn't have a pussy boy haircut, obviously part of security, six feet tall with big arms, and he wants to know, arrogantly, "Who's your sponsor, boy?" 

I rudely say, "I'm not a guest, you nitwit! I'm a new member, and I just laid out twenty-five thousand dollars to join this pussy boy club, never expecting rude horseshit and weak intimidation from an employee such as yourself. What's your name?" 

He backs down, mumbling,  "I'm so sorry; this is only my third day with the security company. Your haircut, though, I thought..." 

"I didn't ask you what you thought, nor did I ask for your life history. What is your name? I'm reporting you to Cam." If he's a new guy, he won't know who Cam is... and neither do I.

He grovels a little, so I finally say, "Alright, stop groveling. I won't report you," then walk the rest of the way up the stairs and go through an opening into the so-called funhouse. It's a big area with a movie theater-type booth in the front. There's a sign saying 'GET YOUR TICKET HERE,' and in the booth is an oldish-looking pussy boy with a puss on his face. Ten feet from the booth is a bored-looking tough guy about forty years old sitting on a stool and not paying any attention to me... the funhouse bouncer, no doubt. 

Trying not to think about him, I stride up to the booth. Close up, the oldish-looking pussy boy with a fresh pussy boy haircut looks annoyed. I come on strong again, "What's your problem, faggot? I paid a lot of money to join this 'effing club, and I just got shit from the security guy watching the stairs, and now you look as if I'm inconveniencing you. Are you too good to work this ticket booth? Is that it?"

He straightens up, sitting straight now, saying, "I'm David, and I'm privileged to be working the booth. How can I help you?"  

"As I told the cretin watching the steps, I've recently become a member, and now I want to know how the funhouse works. So, tell me." 

He's another very gay-acting guy. I'm guessing he has this privileged job because he's about to qualify for the first floor and eventually get out of there. The guy realizes now that obsequiousness is in his best interest.

He says, "Yes, sir. Um, I don't like Rudy, the guy doing the stair duty tonight, either; nobody does." 

"Uh-huh, tell somebody who gives a shit who you like or dislike. When do you intend to tell me how this funhouse thing works?" 

By now, I expect Frederick to wonder where the hell I am, so I need to speed this up. The very gay-acting, older-looking ticket-taker is a muscular pussy boy, so he might be a problem later. For now, he says, "You can pay one hundred dollars, and I'll stamp your hand, which means you can have fun here all night. Come and go until three o'clock in the morning." 

"Do you have a, um, glossary of the pussy boys here tonight?" He waves his limp hand, saying, "Of course," and unfolds a brochure-type thing with photos of the boys being punished, and there's Bruce's picture." Pointing at Bruce's picture, I ask, "How about this kid?" 

He swishes his head, saying, "He just came in this week, so he'll be working the wall for two weeks at least before he's available for other interaction with the members."  

Well, thank God he's here, at least, not at Florida's or the Caribbean club. He's probably less than twenty feet from where I'm standing. I say, "The wall? What's that?" 

He shrugs, "You know, the hole-in-the-wall... oral sex." The guy from the steps, Rudy, has come up to see what's going on, and I've attracted the attention of the previously bored-looking, tough bouncer-type guy, too. 

With gay affectations on full display, the ticket-taker asks, "Would you like the all-night ticket, sir?" And, now two older men are stepping out of the stairwell anxious to get their old dicks sucked or whatever, so I drop a hundred-dollar bill in front of the ticket guy, saying, "I'll do the all-night thing." He puts the hundred in a drawer and stamps the back of my hand, saying, "Have fun, but do no harm to the boys here for your pleasure." 

I assume the club's done enough harm to them already.

Nodding, I walk away and head down a hall with those goofy mirrors like at a real funhouse—the curved mirrors that make you look weird when you stand in front of them. The mirrors make you look like a midget with a huge head or a string-bean person with a tiny head—shit like that. I pass an alcove with four old-fashioned pinball machines and a guy playing one, jerking the machine, tilting it, then cursing. Reliving his childhood?

Next to the pinball machines, there's a small bar with four stools; two men are at the bar wearing bathrobes. I'm looking for the hole-in-the-wall thing, but I don't want to attract extra attention by asking one of these men for directions. I keep casually walking, passing three curtained-off areas. The curtains are attached with sliding rings to a rail above, as you see around hospital beds, affording a little privacy. Inside one such enclosure, I hear the unmistakable sounds of males fucking.

Walking past that, I see a sign on a door saying, SEX TOY PLAY and a smaller sign (Not Available tonight)) but hear some groaning to my right, so walk down a little further and see a six-foot-high wall painted in gay rainbow colors. There are holes in the wall going straight up at different heights... the hole in the wall. Men put their dicks through the hole at the appropriate height, and a pussy boy on the other side sucks them off. 
Nincompoop sex.

There are four sets of holes three feet apart, and two men using two of the spots. One appears to be in his early thirties, and the other in his sixties. They are standing next to each other, getting their dicks sucked while discussing an upcoming Fire Island event. One of the men senses I'm standing behind them turns to me, and says, "Wait for my guy to finish me off. He's good with his tongue." 

The other guy, seeing my pussy boy haircut, says, "For Christ's sake. He's a pussy boy, Dean," and they both laugh. Then Dean mutters, "Oh, ha, yeah," then to me, "Are you waiting to relieve one of the guys behind the wall?"

Ignoring him, when I call, "Bruce?" the older guy immediately screams, "OW! Goddammit, watch the teeth, boy!" 

I ask, "Is that you, Bruce?" I hear, "Zach?" The two men don't seem alarmed by my presents yet. Annoyed but not alarmed.

The older man says to Dean, as if he can't believe it, "He bit my cock, and now he's not doing anything." Dean turns back to me and says, "Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? If you're relieving him, do it now! Get around there and finish Mr. Adams off." 

Mr. Adams has pulled his cock out from the hole, saying to me, "Go, Goddammit!" Dean is now grunting, "Oh, ooh, oooh," and I assume he just blew his load into some poor boy's throat.

Both men indicated I should go to the left, so I walked around the wall and opened the door that was there. Inside is like a big dark closet, pitch black except for the light coming through the holes, which is enough light that I recognize Bruce standing there with a frowning, incredulous expression as he mumbles my name again, "Zach? Wha.. how? Um..." 

I ask conversationally, "Have you had enough of this mistreatment, Bruce? This unfair and illegal exploitation of you."   

He stammers, "What?" I say, "We don't have a shit load of time here. Would you like to leave with me?" 

He looks around, then says, "Yes, I want to leave." One of the other boys, still on his knees, says, "I'll come too." 

Meanwhile, Mr. Adams, on the other side of the wall, still hasn't got his dick sucked all the way, and he's shouting, "David, send security down here. These pussy boys are rebelling."

I motion for Bruce to get moving, then grab his arm and pull him into the hall, "Stay close to me, Bruce," and we walk quickly down past the front of the wall with both men staring at us with, 'What the fuck?' expressions on their faces. Past the SEX TOY FUN door, we run into David, who has the same 'What the fuck?' expression on his face. Then he says, "What do you think you're doing?" I say, "Get out of the way, David, or I'll hurt you."

He screams, "OH!" puts his hands to his mouth, and steps aside. He's big but apparently not a fighter. The bouncer guy is striding down the hall, calling out, "Both of you fags get back behind the wall right now!" 

Behind him is Rudy, the stairs' guard who must have gotten curious about what the hubbub is all about and come up to see what's up. The bouncer has a taser. It's a Taser Pulse Stun Gun on his belt. I recognize the brand and do not want to fuck with that.

I stop abruptly, Bruce bumping into me as I tell the bouncer, "It's okay, calm down, no problem. They told me to bring him down to the first floor for some reason. You know me, right?" 

He looks confused about why I'd infer he knows me. Finally, asking, "Who told you to do that?" 

Smiling, I walk slowly toward him. When I'm in front of him, I say, "The boss, whatshisname?" He says, "Bullshit," and reaches for the taser. I lift my foot and put my entire body weight behind the flat of my foot, hitting his right knee straight on. There's a "Crack" sound as he makes a high-pitched scream and goes over backward with the back of his head hitting the hardwood floor. It sounded like someone dropped a watermelon on a cement driveway. He dropped the taser, and it's skittering across the floor. 

The security guy is unconscious, which is why he only had one scream. David, seeing the security guy going down, let out another loud shrieking shrill girlie scream. So, yeah, there's some screaming going on as I bend over and pick up the taser. Then, shaking my head at him, I pointed the taser at Rudy, who was striding towards me. He stops, holds his hands out, palms out, and we walk past him. 

There was no sound from Bruce, who had hold of the waistband at the back of my shorts. Walking quickly to the stairs, we start going down. At the halfway landing, I can see a small group of members congregated at the bottom of the stairs, perhaps interested in why there's a lot of screaming from the funhouse. When we get to them, I smile waving the taser gun casually at them, and they move away, allowing us to get by, then I head down the long hallway to the front door, Bruce stumbling along behind me. 

The guy wearing a suit stationed at the door is standing in front of the door, watching us coming toward him. Getting closer to him, I see he has a puzzled expression on his face as someone behind us yells, "Don't let those assholes out the door!" We keep walking, and when we get to the man, I say, "It's not worth trying to be a hero and getting a taste of this taser," and show him the taser gun. He steps aside, and we're out the front door.

Some security!

Outside, I tell Bruce, "The car is a block up that road on the other side of the street. Let's run." That's what we do, except Bruce is barefoot, so it's not exactly a hundred-yard dash, but it's faster than walking. And, looking back, I don't see anyone following us anyway. Still, without saying a word, when I open the passenger door, Bruce gets right in without hesitation. 

It's only now I notice what he's wearing. It's a purple, um,  jumper that looks like a one-piece woman's bathing suit with the words FIRST WEEK printed on the front. That's all he has on, but from the light that went on in the car when I opened the door, I noticed what can only be dried cum on his chin, one streak still wet. I look back again as an intense flash of anger, such as I've seldom felt, makes my face hot. I looked back, hoping someone was following me so I could take my anger out on them.

No one's coming, though, so I toss the taser in some weeds and get in the driver's seat. Bruce is leaning against the door, sitting oddly, mostly on the side of his right thigh. I ask, "Are you injured?" He nods, "They paddled me when I got here Sunday night or Monday morning, um... I, ah..." 

I say, "Don't try talking. At this time of night, it'll only take twenty minutes to the hotel. I'll get something to relieve your pain there." I'm so furious I can hardly see, so I squeeze my eyes closed and try to calm down. I'm hot with anger and pissed now that I didn't do more damage. I broke the guy's leg to avoid being tasered, but that's all I did. 

Opening my eyes, I look back for the third time and still don't see any outdoor activity. Letting out a long exhale, I start the car and pull away slowly. Bruce starts quietly sobbing, but I don't know the right words to say, so I keep driving. I hope he's relieved that he's out of there, but he's probably sobbing because he doesn't know what to do now that this blows off his pussy boy career. 

I should feel some elation that I successfully pulled this off, but I don't. I also don't have an adrenaline rush as I should have after doing something as hairy as that. It was so easy; my body didn't produce adrenaline. Mostly, I'm angry that so many gays are willing to participate in clubs such as the pussy boy club. Rationally, I know those sickos represent only a tiny percentage of the gay population, but it's still too many. Then, I realized I participated in a way by hiring three pussy boys myself; no, it was four, counting Dickie.

Yeah, but that's different than the clubs where guys with no options need to put themselves through that degrading existence. Sure, they're coerced into it, they agree to do it not realizing how low and dehumanizing it'll be. Maybe they all used the fractured logic I used while doing that pussy boy training, which was, I've done this much, so I might as well do this one more thing. All my wrath is on the heartless bastards who own and run the clubs.

Bruce sobs on, and I blank my mind to concentrate on my driving. Finally, I drive up to the Waldorf, and neither Bruce nor I speak during the ride. Stopping at the beginning of the semi-circle valet parking area, I tell Bruce, "I'm going to get you something to wear. Stay in the car." 

Not waiting for a reply, I get out and walk up the side of the road to the front door, where the doorman says, "Welcome back, sir." I nod and go to the gift shop. There are T-shirts with 'BIG APPLE' on the front, a large one of which I grab off the rack, then look for shorts. I see only flimsy cotton workout shorts with the 'Big Apple' insignia on the pocket. I can't imagine who would want to wear it, plus I'm pretty sure both clothing items are women's.

Not caring about that, I pick out shorts with a thirty-inch waist and take them and the t-shirt to the cashier, where I see a rack of flip flops and take a pair to add to the other purchases. Paying a ludicrous $98 for the three things, I jog back to the car. Bruce is still avoiding sitting on his ass, so I help him get the t-shirt over his head, and now I notice he has a serious case of BO. Why I didn't notice it during the drive, I can't imagine. He probably hasn't bathed since last Sunday. He's stopped sobbing, but pulling on the shorts is painful for Bruce. As soon as he has the shorts on, he steps out of the car. Standing is preferable, obviously. I hand him the flip-flops, and he puts them on.

"Bruce, walk to the front door and wait for me. I'm going to return this rental car." 

Nodding once, he walks away as I take the paperwork to the valet desk, where the man types in his computer and then says, "You're all set, Mr. McMann. The charge will show on your room bill." 

That's done. I pat Bruce on the shoulder, "Let's go," the doorman opens the door for us, saying, "Welcome back, gentlemen." Swell.

Stopping at the gift shop, I say, "I should have looked for some pain relief when I was there. I'll only be a minute."

 Bruce says, "Thanks, Zack." Nodding, I'm like, "Sure, no problem," and go into the shop. They have Aspercream for pain, but I see a bottle of Hemp Extract Pain Relief for $69 and figure since it cost almost ten times as much as the other, it must be better. I buy it and rejoin Bruce, who has completely stopped sobbing by now.

As we go up in the elevator, I show him the cream and read from the label, "Stops pain long term, heals inflammation, and reduces swelling." He nods again, murmuring, "Thanks." 

We get off and walk past two doors to my suite. Hmm, the boys will be playing a computer game in the living room, but there's nothing to be done about that, so I swipe the key card, and in we go. They're not in the living room. I hear them giggling in their bedroom, so I hustle Bruce into my bedroom.

He's as docile as I've ever been. He got paddled fifteen whacks before he left Atlantic City and then paddled again in New York. Yes, that will tend to make a guy docile. With Bruce standing and trying to help, I get his clothes off, trying not to make a 'face' at how bad he smells. Getting the jumper off proves challenging, so I use my Swiss Army knife and cut it off. Naked, he lies face down on the bedspread, and I gently wipe the cream all over his buttocks, which look worse than mine at their worst.

When I began spreading the cream, he made some quiet whimpering sounds, but five minutes later, he was asleep—poor guy.

Holy shit, what a shame this happened to this naive, trusting, misled kid. I sit in a chair, shaking my head. This sucks right now, but hopefully, better days ahead... right? And, I remain surprised I'm not either shaken or elated. I should be feeling something major. Fuck it, it wasn't much of a challenge, it's over now, and we're moving on.

Looking at Bruce lying naked on the bed, I get the feeling he's not waking up any time soon, so I get one of the extra blankets from the closet and lay it over him. Then I go to the living room for one of those little bottles of liquor. The bottle I grab without even looking is Wild Turkey. Oh, good. An ounce and a half of bourbon. Perfect!

Almost lighting a cigarette in here, I stop and take my booze and cigarette out to the balcony; then, looking past the steel railing, there it is... New York City!  The city that never sleeps. Looking down from many floors up, I believe it never sleeps, and I can't wait to leave it. After lighting a Marlboro, I swallow half the nip bottle of bourbon and finally feel good about what I did tonight. 

There's a niggling thing in my brain that never leaves me alone, and it's asking, do I feel good about tonight for myself or for that poor kid who has had, so far, a life from hell? Still smoking, I walk into the non-smoking suite and get another nip bottle of Wild Turkey, taking it out to the balcony again. Drinking it and looking down, the people look like ants swarming the sidewalks at midnight, like ants busy doing whatever they do on an anthill. Busy, busy!

Finishing the bourbon and cigarette, I go inside and listen at the boy's bedroom door and... silence. Huh, they're sleeping just like my nineteen-year-old boy is sleeping. I'm not sleeping; I'm psyched up and rested and finally feeling victorious and, okay, horny too. I conclude that Bruce is in no condition to help me with my horny condition, but maybe a pussy boy on the street can help while I'm helping him make money. The pussy boys, as I've said, aren't the problem; it's that club and ones like it that suck. The street pussy boys are doing what they chose to do, not so in the funhouse.

I get another small bottle out of the overpriced convenience refrigerator and sit down to drink it, trying to decide if I'm going back out tonight. I could take a taxi to the porn shops in the West Village and hook up with a street pussy boy. I had a two-hour nap earlier this afternoon, so I'm not tired, plus the BO kid is on my bed, so why the fuck wouldn't I go out and settle my nerves getting my ashes hauled? Well, I could think of many reasons I shouldn't do that, but I don't want to think of them.

To hell with a taxi! Finishing the last bottle of bourbon, I call down to the desk, ordering another limo, telling them I'll be right down. As a suite customer, the guy says, "Yes, sir, Mr. McMann. Right away. We have limos at our service night or day." I don't even want to think what it'll cost, it worked perfectly this afternoon, so fuck the cost.

Okay, this irrational behavior is probably an after-effect of my activities in the funhouse and what followed. Whatever, I'm going down in the elevator without any doubts about doing this. The limo driver is greedily waiting for me in the lobby, waiting for me so he can make a few hundred dollars tonight. Good for him.

He's a youngish black dude, maybe twenty-three or so. I'm in a rare snobby mood; maybe it's leftover anger, but I only nod at him and say, "Let's go. I'll pay you for two hours but probably need you for less than that." 

He says, "That's cool," and follows me as I walk quickly outside. I'm normally never officious with people doing a service for me, but I'm in a weird mood. Perhaps, after my earlier activity tonight, it's understandable that I'd be in a weird mood. Sitting in the back of the limo, I come right out and tell him, "I'm looking for a street kid, preferably a pussy boy, to have sex with." 

He says, "I don't know nothing about that." 

"Of course you do, but never mind that. Drive me to the West Village and try not to flood me with bullshit on the way." He goes, "I'll try not to," and he pulls away from the curb.

I know I'm misdirecting my anger from earlier tonight. Anger about the condition Bruce is in. He's a whipped kid whose dream is down the toilet before it got close to happening. That's if it ever would have happened in the first place. And I know, for me, sex tonight is only a temporary answer to my anger, but I only want some temporary relief. Hell, I'm a sexaholic. Maybe I'll do something about that when I'm fifty, but for now, it's my main pleasure in life. And I know that's not mentally a healthy state of mind, but right now, I don't care.

The driver doesn't say a word, which is perfect as I stew in the back of the limo, thinking about getting fucked really well. In the West Village, the driver asks, "Where to, boss?" Hmm. I forget exactly, and then I remember the name of the Leather Shop, so say, "The Leather Shop," and he goes, "Seriously, dude, if you're assuming I know this gay shit, you're sadly mistaken. I don't know no leather shop, um,  whatever." 

"Just drive around. Can you do that?" He goes, "Yeah, I can do that."

He drives for a minute, and I go, "Listen, I'm sorry for being a dick. It's been a shitty night, and I just wanna, um, do something sexual to get my mind off of everything. Sorry for taking it out on you." 

"Hell, that's okay. I've been there myself, except on another team." With a couple of diplomatic words, he earned himself a bigger tip. Smart!

We cruise around until finally finding a porn shop, although not one of the two I know of. There are prostitutes for both sexes hanging around, but no pussy boys. I have no experience with street prostitutes other than pussy boys and only been with them for the past few days. I'm fairly clueless, but it seems obvious to me that younger, cleaner, hairless pussy boy prostitutes are preferable to grungy homeless prostitutes who haven't bathed for weeks. Duh!  

Looking out the window as we drive, I give up, hoping to meet up with a pussy boy. The limo driver's no help, so I'm going to begin looking for the best option from the homeless group.

It's now almost one-thirty, so I settle on a non-pussy boy. He's a guy about twenty-five who arrogantly stared right back at me when we cruised by. He was leaning against a stop sign as if he couldn't give a shit about anything. Our eyes met, and he nodded his head, like 'C'mon, let's do it.'

I'll bet he'd be a dominant one. I'm just about to tell the driver to circle back to that guy when, in the nick of time, I see a clean, short-haired pussy boy getting out of his pimp's car; he's unmistakably a pussy boy. He leans in at the open car window, listening to what he's being told, exaggeratingly nodding at his mentor/pimp's instructions. He's nodding fast, like I'd nod at Bruce when he was giving me instructions, just wanting to please our man.

Hmm, only a nervous rookie pussy boy or a recruit such as I will nod his head that enthusiastically. That's interesting. Maybe I'll be this pussy boy's first client. I tell the driver, "Drive around the block and park at the bus stop." 

There's still a lot of traffic in the city that never sleeps, so it takes almost ten minutes to make it around the long blocks of NYC. The arrogant guy at the stop sign is gone, and a block down, a lone figure, a pussy boy whore, casually smokes a cigarette. He looks smallish from here, making me think of Dickie.

The limo driver dropped me off at the bus stop, and I told him to wait for me there. No buses are running at this time of night. He says, "I'll be right here, boss," and I get out to walk to the waiting pussy boy. When I'm a half block away, he glances at me and then glances at a side street where his pimp is probably watching. If he is, this kid has just been put out on the street.

When I approach him, he stammers, "Hello, um, officer." 

Smiling, I say, "I've no affiliation with any law enforcement agency. I don't even like cops all that much. How about you?" 

He's so young-looking I can hardly believe he's old enough, so I come right out and ask, "Do you mind me asking how old you are?" He looks at the alley again, then mumbles, "Old enough," and I go, "How old is that, exactly?" He goes, "Eighteen, why?" 

Enough foreplay. "So, what are you good at?" 

He says, "Bowling," I chuckle because I see him gaining confidence by the second. He's also my idea of the quintessential pussy boy wearing the uniform; he's five feet nine, slim, short-cut blond hair, big blue eyes that shine with youth, and a youthful, almost cute face. Well, it's closer to average-looking than cute because of his too-prominent nose that doesn't belong with the rest of his facial features.

And I know that the longer I go with this conversational, non-pushy manner, the more confidence the kid will feel, which is good. Remembering his training, he smiles and asks, "What are you interested in me doing for you? You've already rung up a fifty-dollar charge for taking my time up with chit-chat. It'll be another fifty if you want oral sex of the normal kind, a hundred and fifty if you want the whole oral sex bargain deal. You'd need to be in a car for that, though."

I like this kid. "How long have you been on the street, pussy boy?"

"So far, about an hour. This is my first night, so you get a virgin who you should heavily tip." I snort out a laugh, mumbling, "Hardly a virgin," and he goes, "A street virgin. Listen, are you gonna buy something, or are you just browsing?" 

"I'm a buyer, but not for oral sex." Seeing cum on Bruce's chin and around his mouth puts me off oral sex temporarily, and I imagine it will put Bruce off it for quite a while as well. But I don't want to think about Bruce. I'm out here trying to forget about the events of earlier tonight. 

He asks, "Top or bottom?" I say, "Bottom." He tries not to, but he grins anyhow, probably relieved his first client doesn't want to fuck him. Then, it surprises me, although it shouldn't when he clamps his fingers tightly at the back of my neck, squeezes enough that I hunch my shoulder, "Ow," and he says, "Let's do this. C'mon."

Obviously, I could easily shrug his hand away if I wanted to, but his being dominated is part of the experience for me. I docilely walk where he's taking me, which increases his confidence tenfold, I'd imagine. There aren't many people walking the streets, but going down past the alley where this kid's man is parked, we pass a few walkers who glance at us, perhaps wondering why a smaller boy is bullying a larger man. I think this is sexually arousing and fun. Sex should be fun, doncha think?

With me whining, "Ow," every few seconds, he guides me around the corner to a spot I'm sure his man had scoped out earlier. It's the entrance to a small group of shops selling fresh produce; all closed for business now, obviously. It's out of sight from the street. Positioning me up against a glass door, he says, "One hundred dollars, please." 

"Would you let go of my neck?" He says, "No, you can get your money out as we are."

Reaching into my pocket, I try separating a single hundred-dollar bill but bring out two instead. Dammit, the same thing happened at the pussy boy parking lot with Matt and Dickie. The pussy boy goes, "For a hundred-dollar tip, you can suck a hard-on for me, and it'll cover your chit-chat time as well." 

I sarcastically mutter, "Thanks for the bargain," and hand him the two bills.  Not picking up on the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it, he says, "You're welcome," and lets go of my neck to put the money in the pocket of his crisp, clean, tan cargo shorts.

Standing with his legs spread, acting fully in charge now, he tells me, "Undo my shorts, pull them down, and suck my cock. When I thump your head with a knuckle, stop, and I'll tell you what to do next." 

Nodding, I ask, "What's your name?" He goes, "George and I'll be in this area for the next week, happy to accommodate a big tipper like you, so come on back any time for preferential treatment." He doesn't bother asking my name because his man told him no one would give their real name anyway. He's so slim I could easily pull his shorts down without unbuttoning them, except that's not what he said to do. I unbutton his shorts, unzip the fly, and pull the shorts down to his ankles. He isn't wearing underwear. 

He lifts one foot, then the other, and I remove his shorts. Then, I look up at him, and he says, "Take a condom out of my pocket, then hand the shorts to me." Well, of course, a pussy boy isn't going to get his shorts dirty, leaving them around his feet. After doing what he said, he hangs his shorts on a doorknob, takes the condom from me, and says, "Get on your knees." 

His cock is a good one. It's maybe six inches long with a rare pointy head. Rare for a penis of this length. It's got regular heft and should feel really good in my ass. Naturally, his groin is as free of hair as it was the day he was born. I pick up his dick, not especially wanting to suck it because of what I was thinking earlier about Bruce, but I'm not supposed to be thinking about Bruce right now. That's the whole point.

George says, "In the interest of transparency, you're my second client, not my first. I fucked a guy an hour ago, so you'll taste the stuff that's inside a condom. I didn't cum getting him off, though, so you're lucky there." 

Hmm, I put his dick in my mouth, and, yeah, there's a weird taste the first couple of seconds, but I wouldn't have given it a thought if he hadn't told me about it. Actually, it's somehow sexier knowing his cock was fucking some guy an hour ago. When I've sucked the head enough to firm up his cock, I take his pointy-headed-pecker out of my mouth and do long licks from his balls to the pointy head, doing that all around his sexy penis. It gets as hard as a rock, as hard as only a very young penis can get. Hard as steel. My cock is hard, too, and pushing up at the waistband of my underwear. I feel a tiny submissive twitch in my balls as well. 

NIce!

His steel cock goes into my mouth again, sliding back and forth on my tongue. Oddly, George holds onto my ears, pulling my head forward and back, murmuring, "You're doing good; keep it up, boy." 

So, why not take his dick in my throat? When he pulls my ears forward this time, I go all the way forward until my face is against his belly with his cock, a steel boner, going two inches into my throat. He goes, "Awk, ooh," yanking my ears and head back, then taking a step back himself with his cock pulling out of my mouth completely, and it's sticking straight out from his groin. There's a string of pre-cum from my lips to the piss slit of his pointy boner's-head that breaks off, the wet sticky line of precum drifting down across my chin and sticking under my chin to my neck.

George says, "Jesus! Um, I mean, that was good. Now, get up and get your pants down." I like this kid's style and say, "Of course, right away, George," which gives me a delicious submissive sense. He looked startled when I said that but recovered quickly to get on top of me further, saying, "Quickly!"

I drop my shorts and underwear to my feet, not caring if they get dirty on the cement floor. George looks surprised to see I've got a boner and no pubic hair. He looks at my boner, then looks up at me, again trying not to smile, but he does, mumbling, "That's so cool, dude," and he puts a hand around my boner, fingers of his other hand feeling the smoothness of my groin, mumbling, "Just like mine, huh?"

Shit, that's a cute reaction, but my submissive sense, while not very strong to start with, evaporates entirely. Remembering that he's been trained to maintain control of the situation, he tries looking stern, but it's hard to do being so young-looking, reminding me of Dickie again. Then he says, "Turn around, and if you want a good hard fuck you need to keep your ass pushed up and out for me. I won't tell you again; I'll smack the back of your head. That will be your notice you've let your ass down somewhat." Oh, I feel a touch of submissiveness returning.

Almost all tops will smack your ass, but George slaps extra hard, then he does it again. "SMACK!" I look back and see him rolling on the condom as he's saying, "Keep your head forward. Also, cover your mouth if you need to scream when I mount you." 

Oh, this is getting good. His man would be proud of George's performance because George has correctly discerned that I like being submissive, and he's doing his best to be dominant. If I pushed back at that, then he'd back down and accommodate by being submissive himself and letting me be dominant. Bruce told me about this. They told me I needed to read my customer's preferences. That's part of a pussy boy's training. 

I feel the slippery nipple of the condom brush my anus, and then BAM! he drives it in past my sphincter muscle, probably three inches, and then immediately pushes in the rest. From start to finish, it took one second, and now he's grinding his hips against my buttocks as the pain roars in my head. I'm gasping but not exactly screaming because I've felt much worse. The pointy heads go in easier than those big mushroom ones. I grunt and make noisy, breathy sounds as he keeps grinding, his body pushing against me until I'm flat against the glass door, my boner squished between the door and my belly.

He gets his arms around my waist, squeezing against me, his cock fully impaling me until it's almost like we're one body. As he's pushing me against the glass door, the pain begins fading, and I realize, hey! I now feel totally under his control and dominated nicely. That was the most unique first ninety seconds of any fuck I've had, and my hat's off to his mentor because George is effectively dominant even though his body is small size. My hat's off to George as well for pulling it off. 

As soon as he sees no resistance, he takes his arms from around me, slaps my ass, then grips my hips and murmurs, "Listen to my instructions and do exactly what I tell you. Back away from the door and close your legs." I do that, his cock still fully inside me, and he says, "Tighter. Your legs need to be tightly together, and you need to move away from the door more, your hands on the glass. Bend over more, Goddammit!" Oh boy, he's good at this, and to think he's inexperienced, so a few weeks from now... holy shit! 

I do everything he says, but he slaps the back of my head anyway, reminding me to push my ass out more. Satisfied, he goes, "Good. Stay like that. Your legs together will give me a tighter feel on my cock. Your ass is a tad loose for my liking." Then he starts fucking me, and he does it the pussy boy way of angling the penetrations differently, which has me moaning at the enormous pleasure, "Ah, ah, ah," with each long hard thrust. George grunts with each thrust, too, and he's putting his hips and body into each one. 

I didn't last two minutes before I made a girlie squeal at the incredible sensations storming from my rectum and cock. Oh man, the explosion, the delicious pleasure of climaxing, was so intense my whole body shuddered. I blew my load against the glass door, then a good follow-up shot of cum with dizziness swarming all over me as sizzling streaks of pleasure left me weak. I didn't even realize he pulled his cock out of my ass until I heard the rustling of him putting his shorts back on, and there was the limp condom he dropped on the ground... without climaxing!

I'm bent over, my hands on the glass door, my ass still sticking out and up, my legs together like a little kid who needs to go pee-pee. Taking a deep breath, shuddering again, I slowly push off the door and stand straight, my legs moving apart. George pats my shoulder, saying, "Any time, pal. Look for me when you need a good hard and fast fucking." 

Turning around, my dick now as limp as me, cum drooling off it, I nod my head, mumbling, "Thanks, George. That's exactly what I needed." He bends down and pulls my jockey shorts up, which rubs the cum off the head of my cock, mumbling, "I'm a full-service pussy boy," then he pulls up my shorts, adding, "There ya go."

I'm still feeling sizzling after-effects from my climax, still feeling slightly submissive to George, too. He smiles and says, "If you feel inclined to offer a further tip, I'd be grateful." Nodding my head, I mumble, "Of course, George," and pull out a bill that happens to be a fifty. If it were a hundred, I'd have given him that. He says, "Thanks, and I hope we can do business again soon. Wait here for three minutes; then you can leave." Another stab of submissiveness at that outrageous remark... then I can leave. It makes me grin... way to go, George, or whatever your name is.

It's more like five minutes of getting myself together. I take another deep breath and start walking. When I turn the corner, he's gone, probably picked up in the car by his man, to whom George is now bragging about how he got two hundred fifty dollars from that sap, meaning me. And he didn't even climax! That's pussy boy training!

Well, I've blown a shit load of money on pussy boys this week, but I needed the sexual relief after all the fucking Bruce and I were doing before it stopped last Sunday. The street sex was needed as much as wanted, and I'm impressed with the pussy boy prostitutes, both those online and on the street. 

Well, there was that one disappointment: the eleven o'clock in the morning date, but all the others were very good. Hmm, I don't see Bruce being sexually active any time soon, so I'll probably either try some bar pick-ups or, more likely, check out the Atlantic City's pussy boys. I have no problem with the pussy boys per se; as I've said, it's the clubs that make me furious to even think about.

The limo is at the bus stop; the driver has the interior light on and is reading a paperback book. Huh, maybe I'll buy a limousine and set Bruce up in that business. Nah, there's too much competition—too many limo companies and not enough people who can afford them. 

I get in the back seat, and the driver puts his book away and asks, "Where to now?" He's not fully committed to obsequiousness, obviously, but I don't mind. I mumble, "Back to the hotel," and that's the last of our communication. The limo charge goes on my hotel bill. I give him a hundred as a tip. He goes, "Thanks," and that's that.

In the suite, all is quiet, so I reach into the little refrigerator for a tiny bottle of booze. A nightcap is in order. Surprise, I pull out a Jack Daniels. Hot shit, maybe my luck is changing. Pouring the Jack in a glass, I go on the balcony and drink it while having a smoke thinking about George's cool way of fucking. It was intimate, dominant, and fast. Not bad at all.

It's two-thirty in the morning, so it's time for bed. I take a piss and wash up in the bathroom, then brush my teeth and check on Bruce. He hasn't moved, so I feel his neck for a pulse and happily feel a steady one. Bruce's BO hasn't lessened, so I get a spare pillow and comforter from the shelf in the closet and sleep on the couch. My last thoughts are... what's the best thing to do for Bruce now that I've rescued him?

To be continued...