My summer of sex with Cowboy

Chapter 33

After watching Danny drive off, I then drive away from the Ford dealership, too. I'm experiencing a bit of a guilt trip for having sex and knowing Bruce isn't. He's working with a very straight group there at whatshisname, Luca-something's house in Philly. And there is no way Bruce will be going out at night for bar pick-ups. I mean, he wouldn't know how if he wanted to, and he's not horny enough to want to.

The ludicrous pussy boy training of three or four fucks a day is what I blame for my horniness, so why isn't Bruce just as horny? Perhaps because he's not trying to make up for the five years that he missed out on sub/dom sex the way I believe my subconscious is making me try to do. 

Whatever, I'm going to meet that car-washing pussy boy tonight. Perhaps he'll be an excellent top with a big dick, although my luck can't continue, right? Danny certainly had it all, but a lot of our sex was me sucking his cock. The two times we fucked, though, his eight-and-a-half inches of fat hard boner will be remembered by me. It's unrealistic to expect car-washer Dean to match any part of the experience I had with Danny, except for the youthful-looking part. Whatever, I'm looking forward to seeing him just the same. 

As I go up to our second-floor apartment, I get a text from Cowboy. Reading it going up the stairs, it says: Zach, how ya doing? Lee and I are having a blast in Wildwood but need to come back to AC because Mrs. Patrick wants her car back. We'll see you Friday. We miss you. Love, Cowboy. 

Huh, I thought they drove to Wildwood on Lee's motorbike. I'm glad they didn't. Well, tomorrow is Friday, so it'll be nice to see them. Hmm, it's sweet that Cowboy used 'we' as if he and Lee are a full-blown boyfriend couple—a lucky nineteen-year-old boyfriend couple. If I could live my life over...

Fuck that; I can't live my life over! I need to stop rehashing the past and concentrate on the here and now. For me, the here and now means Bruce, but he's not here, so I'm back looking for a sex buddy for now, and Dean will have to do it. Yeah, but it's not that simple. First, I'll need to find him somewhere on the street, and then I hope he's not, um, busy... and then I will pay him. It's not ideal, but it's better than nothing.

Inside the apartment, I pace around, trying to decide what to do with myself. It's almost one o'clock, so normally it'd be time for lunch, except I'm not all that hungry after the big breakfast Danny and I had at the boardwalk cafe. I do not want to start drinking, so I'll go on a run. Putting on socks and sneakers, I grab a water bottle and go outside with the fob to the BMW. Yeah, I'm going to drive to the high school I remember passing when I was looking for the 24th Street Circle and that poor excuse for a pussy boy. I caught a glimpse of a track behind the school. 

After getting lost, I circled back and found the high school, and luckily, there was a track, and no one was on it. Walking over to it with the water bottle, I remember that the innermost lane of a high school track is 400 meters. The distance around the other lanes can be determined using the formula 2S+2pi (R+ (n-1) w)= L. How I remember that formula and yet didn't remember to bring my sunglasses, I couldn't say. Whatever, I'm running on the 400-meter lane, which means four times around the track, plus 9.4 meters equals a mile. I'll forget about the extra 9.4 meters and consider I've run a mile after four laps.

Being sensible, I do warn-up exercises for ten minutes, then check the time on my cell phone, and then start running at a good pace. I'm shooting for a modest eight to nine-minute mile for my initial two-mile run. I'll take a break after that, drink some water, then do it again. Four miles, as out of shape as I am, will be an excellent workout. The first mile takes me almost ten minutes, and the second takes over ten minutes... not good times. I stagger to the stands, sit, and guzzle water, then slow down and sip it. Holy shit, I'm out of shape. Well, it is eighty-eight 'effing degrees with a glaring sun today, and that'll slow down anyone. 

After resting, I start running my third mile but can't run it in under ten minutes. I don't even time my last mile run, my fourth of the day. Sweating and gasping for oxygen, I flop on the lowest bleacher bench and finish the quart bottle of water. Okay, my performance disappointed me, but it's a wake-up call to get in better shape. Driving back to the apartment, soaking with sweat, I tell myself I need to find a gym where I can do some lifting and some cardio work, plus get back into a program running three days a week.

Parking at the apartment, knowing I'm not going to do any of those good intentions today. I will join a place such as Planet Fitness, but not today or tomorrow. The beginning of next week makes the most sense. You know, I'll start fresh at the beginning of the weekAfter a shower, I put on a bathing suit and T-shirt, then drink a beer to replace electrolytes after that four-mile run. Yeah, I know it's a myth that beer does that, although there are a few electrolytes in beer. The bad part is that beer dehydrates you, which is the opposite of what my body needs. I drink it anyway. 

As for lunch, when Bruce is here, we have cold cuts and rolls to make sandwiches, but he's been gone almost a week, so there's nothing left in the refrigerator. Fuck it; I'll get a sub sandwich on my way to the beach. I feel good about doing something worthwhile today, and I'm psyched about doing a mile swim later this afternoon as well.

So, okay, running and swimming are better usage of my time than getting drunk and lying around all day or cruising the 24th Street circle for pussy boys. Cruising pussy boys should be a nighttime activity anyway. I'll keep busy during the day; that's how to deal with horniness. 

Remembering to bring a towel, sunglasses, cell phone, wallet, and cigarettes, I drive to the sub shop closest to the apartment and buy an Italian sub and a large bottle of water, then drive to the beach, where I'll eat lunch. I'm also kind of looking forward to joking around with my only friend in Atlantic City. That would be my grumpy pal, Markie, at the chair and umbrella rental booth. When I'm at the counter, Markie has his back to me as he's unwrapping brand-new beach chairs.

Huh, he has a nice taut, albeit thin, body with a cute ass. After waiting a minute, I clear my throat. He looks back and almost grins but catches himself and goes, "Just a second." I say, "Have you ever heard of that old saying, customers come first?" He turns around completely this time, and I see he has a black eye and an ugly bruise on his forehead.

He says, "I'll get one of the new chairs for you. Sam told me not to rent them out yet, but what he don't know won't hurt him." 

I mumble, "Thanks, um, nice shiner you've got there." 

He shakes his head, "I don't wanna talk about that." 

"Well, hell, I certainly do. When my best friend in Atlantic City has a black eye and an ugly bruise, I wanna know why?" 

He's separating a new chair from the stack, asking, "And why is that?" 

"Because I might need to kick somebody's ass, that's why."

Putting the new beach chair outside the counter, he asks, "An umbrella too?" Nodding, I go, "Yes, and how'd you get the black eye?" 

He takes a deep breath, then says, "Jameson and I got beat up because we're queers, okay? Satisfied?" 

"No, I'm not. Who beat you up?" I'm assuming Jameson is Markie's boyfriend, who I think Markie said has a job on the boardwalk.

He shrugs and mumbles, "Just some homophobic college guys. It was yesterday after work. Jameson came out of work, and I was there waiting for him on the boardwalk. He made the mistake of kissing me. It was a tiny joking kiss, just goofing around, but three guys saw that and followed us off the boardwalk and did the normal." 

"What's, um, the normal?" He says, "You know, teasing us and wanting us to blow them or whatever... what else do shit-heads like that do?" 

Putting a twenty on the counter, I say, "Well, what the fuck happened then? How did you get a black eye and bruises?" 

He's embarrassed, "Why? Waddaya gonna do... beat up three guys? They're not little guys like Jameson and me, ya know." 

I say, "I still wanna know about the black eye?" He looks as if he's going to cry as he mutters, "Well, fuck you! I told you I don't want to talk about it," and he starts down the beach with my umbrella on his shoulder. Carrying the chair, I catch up with him, "Listen, Markie, I'm going to hang out in the general vicinity when you get off work. What time do you get off?" 

He mutters, "Today, at four-thirty. And, I don't care what you do." He digs the umbrella into the sand, then leaves abruptly, ignoring the ten-dollar bill I'm holding out to him. 

Wow, I'm steaming hot and bullshit pissed off. I despise bullies, and these bullies did more than bully a couple of gay boys; they beat them up. I'm imagining two scared gay boys being abused like that. Of course, I recognize the abuse of pussy boys at the pussy boy club too, and I'm still disappointed that I didn't do more damage at the club getting Bruce out of there. That's increasing my desire to fuck up these college assholes.

Well, I guess I did minor damage to the security staff at the pussy boy club, but that's missing the point. I wanted to fuck up those in charge of that shit factory, but they wouldn't come out of hiding. Well, I'll take my frustration out on these three bullies. I fume about that while smoking a cigarette, then calm down enough to eat my lunch. Then, taking my time, I drink the bottle of water, trying not to get steaming mad all over again. Later, putting all the stuff I don't want to get wet under the towel, I go down to the ocean for the swim I planned on. I've lost my earlier enthusiasm for swimming, but I'm going to do it anyway.

Swimming out past the people wading around, I don't swim a mile, only a little over a half-mile, but I do it with vigor, and I'm gasping for oxygen by the time I'm wading out of the ocean, going back to my chair and umbrella. Catching my breath, my heart pumping back at a normal rate, I feel good about the swim. Adjusting the new beach chair, I lie back on it and close my eyes, thinking about Bruce and wondering how I know I'm in love with him. Well, for one thing, I think about him a lot, and I miss him as I've never missed anyone before in my life. So, those are two clues right off the bat. Ah, but who knows why you fell in love? No one's figured it out in five thousand years, so why the fuck would I think I can?

Still, I wonder about that preposterous three-plus weeks Bruce mentored me with the nonsensical and mean-spirited pussy boy training. Did it actually somehow brainwash me into, um, into what? That doesn't make sense because I was infatuated with Bruce the first night, I met him. No, it wasn't anything like love back then! Of course not, but he intrigued me mightily, and that's what kept me going back for more. Just imagine a young teenager on the street, homeless for years, only surviving by selling his body. Holy shit! And, I think what intrigued me the most was the contrast between Bruce's life and my privileged one. The vast differences are almost inconceivable. Then there's his dominant sex that lights my fire, plus the revelation I wasted years not enjoying gay sex the way I'm psychologically wired, meaning as a submissive bottom.

Oh, hell, it's too confusing for me to sort out, and why do I need to anyway? My eyes are still closed; I see in my head all the features of Bruce's face and body that I like so much. The feel, and how his skin smells, and the way he fucks me, and the way I see him trying so hard to get on board the real-world train. Then I doze off...

A half-hour later, I sense someone in my personal space and open my eyes, seeing Markie putting a water bottle on my towel. The bottle has condensation on the outside, so it's an iced cold bottle of water. "Hey, thank you, Markie!" and then grab the ten-dollar bill from my wallet and say, "You walked away before I could tip you." 

He shrugs, "You don't need to." I say, "Yeah, I do. Take it," and with another shrug, he takes it, muttering, ''Thanks," and lingers, fidgeting. Hmm?

I pick up the bottle, saying, "I really need this, buddy." 

He still hasn't left, so I'm like, "Tell me what happened with the college assholes?" I twist off the bottle cap as he says, "Oh, um, ah, they followed us off the boardwalk and tried to push us in a van parked alongside the ramp to the boardwalk. The biggest guy grabbed me and said all they wanted was to watch us give a blowjob to each other. Jameson tried to get free from another big dude, and his elbow accidentally got the guy in the mouth. When they started punching us, a lady screamed at them that she was calling the police. They got in their SUV saying they'd be back tomorrow, meaning today."

After swallowing half the water, I ask, "Did you tell the police?" He shakes his head, "We didn't see any cops. We ran to where Jameson's car was parked and went home." 

Oh man, I'm pissed off all over again. Markie goes, "Um, well, ya know, I guess it's okay if you want to hang out when I meet Jameson tonight. That's what I wanted to tell you." 

Nodding, "Definitely, although they're unlikely to be there today. Bullies are mostly cowards, but we'll see. Four-thirty, huh? I'll see you then." 

He shrugs, "If you want to..." and he trudges through the sand back to his booth.

Haha, if I want to. He wants me to be there, and I wouldn't think of not being there. I haven't kicked anybody's ass since those guys tried to fuck with us when I got Cowboy his fake ID. Now I'm anxious to meet these pricks, although, as I said, there isn't much chance they'd be stupid enough to try it again. They can't be sure that the lady didn't call the cops, and a cop might be there this afternoon. After all, it was sort of an attempted kidnapping when they tried getting the boys in the van. 

Looking at my cell phone, I see it's ten of four, so I've still got a little while to chill here on the beach.

Instead of sitting here, I decided to take a walk, checking out the hot, cute guys sunbathing. After walking in one direction for ten minutes, a fact hit home that I already knew... there are but very few cute, hot young guys, not only here, but anywhere. They're scarce, they're rare creatures, and most of them are sexually straight or pretending to be—an unfortunate truth. Today, the few I saw who qualify as cute and hot are too young for me, and by the time they're not too young, most of them will have grown out of their cuteness.

Heading back to my chair, I conclude I've been lucky to have met a few cute guys here in AC, Danny being the latest. The pussy boys I've paid for weren't cute, and Bruce isn't either; not like Danny, but Bruce is cute in an unusual way. He has a kind of goofy, cute look that's hard to describe. He's very youthful-looking, though, and, actually, he's more good-looking than cute. 

At four-twenty-five, I take the umbrella and chair back to the booth, where Markie says, "I was just about to come and get those." 

I shrug, noticing the older man sitting in a beach chair, ready to take over for Markie. He sees the new chair I'm putting on the return pile and sternly says, "Hey, Markie, what the fuck? I told you not to rent the new chairs, didn't I?" 

Before Markie can say anything, I say, "I grabbed that new chair. The kid didn't give it to me. What's your problem, anyway? Haven't you ever heard that the customer is always right?" 

"Yeah, I've heard that, but don't subscribe to it. And, I got no problem that's any business of yours."

Markie rolls his eyes and makes a face at me as he blows out his cheeks, exhales a long exhale, and then says, "I'll see you tomorrow, Sam." I began walking away halfway through Sam's harangue. I didn't want the old fuck to think I was one of Markie's buddies, so I left before he did. Walking under the boardwalk to the street, I wait for him. 

His face looks tight as he walks up to me and points at an SUV illegally parked next to the ramp. I'm like, "You're kidding. That's the college guys' SUV from yesterday?" 

He gulps and nods his head. I grin, "Okay, good! When Jameson comes out of work, tell him to pretend to go along with the college assholes. I'll be standing under the ramp waiting." He gulps again, asking, "Aren't you scared?" 

"Nah, I'm ready for this. Being scared is beside the point."

He nods his head, then says, "I could call the cops," and he shows me his cell phone. Shaking my head, "No, this way is more direct. Go ahead and do what I said." 

He looks very pale as he asks, "Are you sure?" I pat his shoulder and smile, saying, "I've got them outnumbered. Go ahead, Markie." 

He starts to walk away, and I say, "Oh, one more thing," he turns, and I say, "You and your friend step away when anything physical happens." He nods, then walks down to the ramp's entrance and goes up it to the boardwalk. For something to do, I memorize the van's license plate number. Huh, it's a Pennsylvania license, so these guys are only visiting. It's good they're not locals. What's not good is I'm not dressed for an altercation, wearing a T-shirt, bathing suit, and sandals, but it is what it is. 

Standing under the ramp where the beach begins, I lean against one of the many boardwalk supports that look like telephone poles; then, crossing my arms over my chest, I wait. Shortly, I hear, "It's smart of you two fags to cooperate this time." then a high-pitched voice adds,  "Ya don't get smacked around as much when cooperating." 

The voices get closer as another voice is saying, "We don't even want to watch you give a blow job right now. Maybe later or another day. We're merely going to take your shorts off under this ramp to see if you're wearing girl's underwear," and then there's forced laughter. I've heard nothing from the boys. I can only see feet, then their legs, as they walk next to the rising ramp. When the ramp opening is six feet, I see them. There are two husky fellows, both probably twenty or twenty-one, each with an arm around the back of one of the boys' necks as they walk along the side of the ramp. The difference in the size of the bullies compared to the skinny gay boys pisses me off royally!

Behind the two husky guys, who are slightly under six feet tall, is a snickering rat-faced fellow who's only about five-six. The other two are average-looking guys, both with longish brown hair, and all three of them are wearing sneakers, shorts, and baggy T-shirts. Jameson, by the way, has a longish face that's borderline cute, but only because he's very boyishly young-looking. His longish-shaped head makes me think of that old joke: a horse at the bar is ordering a shot of whiskey. The guy next to him asks, 'Jeez, pal, why the long face?'

Anyhow, Jameson is a little taller than Markie and even thinner, and he has the same fucked-up home haircut Markie has, but his hair is black. I'm looking at all five of them, but only Markie is looking at me as I lean against the pole. The bully, with his arm around the back of Markie's neck, has very hairy arms and a short beard. There's a tattoo on the back of his hand that reads: 'Party starter.'

Because Markie is looking my way, the hairy-arm bully looks my way, too. He mutters, "Who the fuck...?" They all stop, look at me, and the short rat-face guy who is built like a fireplug says, "What are you doing under there, dude?" 

"I'm waiting for you, asshole." Markie looks scared, but Jameson smiles, then mutters, "Holy fuck." The three bullies look at each other. 

Yeah, they thought they were going to fuck with these two skinny boys, and now they see me, a six-foot-two-inch man who is definitely no cupcake. I say,  "Yesterday, the three of you big bad hard-ons beat up these two boys who you outweigh by seventy pounds each, so today I'm going to beat you up. Let's see how you like it." 

All three are frowning but getting their confidence back because, after all, there are three of them. 

The guy with his arm around Jameson has a tattoo on the side of his neck. It's a three-inch dagger with blood dripping off its point. He says, "Oh, I'm so frightened I can hardly breathe, but I'm curious too. Um, which one of these homos is your boyfriend?" 

I smile, "Neither of them, but I'm curious why you three bad-ass macho guys are hot to see these boys pant less." He shakes his head, then mutters, "Fuck this shit," and takes his arm off Jameson's neck, and pulls a blackjack from his back pocket, saying, "Whatever your act is, you've got five seconds to get your ass out of there, or we'll stomp you and then depants these faggots."

There's no sense in me fucking around with this. Against three, I need to make it quick. I shrug, take a step toward the opening as if I've decided to do what he said, then turn and nail him with a short eighteen-inch punch going up on my toes and following through with all two hundred pounds behind my hard knuckles hitting his nose. The punch breaks the maxilla bone in his nose, which is the topmost bone, and he screams, "Eieeee!" dropping the blackjack as his nose flattens sideways against his left cheek, blood flowing like mad. 

With both hands covering his face, he goes down on his knees. While he was doing that, with my other arm bent, I swung it back hard, my elbow connecting with the side of the rat-face guy's forehead, "Plunk!" He drops to the sand like he was shot without making a sound and lies there unconscious. The third guy had let go of Lee, but instead of coming at me, he took two backward steps. Quick as a motherfucker, I reach over and grab a fistful of his longish hair pulling his head down, then two hard uppercuts cut my knuckles on his teeth. I'm a little bit out of control, seeing red as I keep pulling his head forward until he sprawls on his face in the sand, his head hitting a support post. 

It all happened in three seconds, and I've got a lot of adrenaline flowing. I want more action, but there are no takers. Jameson again mumbles, "Holy fuck," and Markie says, "Let's get out of here..." 

Shaking my head, I wait for the guy who fell on his face to turn around. With sand on his face and in his hair, he sits against the support post and mutters, "You fucking animal." One of his front teeth is hanging on a string of something. The rat-faced guy is up on his hands and knees now, conscious but dazed, his head hanging. The third one is sitting on the sand, groaning, still holding his hands to his bleeding, broken nose. 

To the guy who seems most alert, the one with the hanging tooth that he's now pushed back into its socket, holding it there with a couple of fingers, I say, "Listen to me, you dumb fuck. I'm sure none of you know the license plate number of the SUV, but I know it." I rattle it off to him, then say, "I could call the police on you assholes because yesterday you tried to get these guys in your van, which is an attempted kidnapping." 

Broken nose, mutters, "Bullshit... " Ignoring him, I say, "For now, I won't get the cops involved, but maybe I will later. Right now, I'm having too much fun dealing with you rat-fucks myself, which I will do much harder if you go near either one of these young men again."

The guy with the loose tooth mutters, "You're the one the police will arrest, you motherfucker." 

I ask, "Oh, shall I call them?" 

He looks away, and broken nose says, "No, don't call." I had no intention of doing that. I say to rat-face, "Give me your wallet!" Swaying on his hands and knees, he mutters, "Fuck you," and I reach down and grab the waistband of his shorts, lifting him off the ground. He screams because his head hurts, probably a concussion. Reaching into his back pocket, I take his wallet out. Dropping him, he screams in pain again as I look at his license. Reading his name and address out loud to everyone, I add, "Now I know who you are." 

Dropping the wallet and license in the sand, I say, "You're from Upper Darby, Nickolas. That's a suburb of Philly. So, I know your name and where the fuck you live, and I'm confident I can persuade you to tell me where these other dick-heads live if I need to know." 

It's been no more than two minutes from the time the hairy-arm guy saw me, but I need to finish this quickly. If someone walks down here or walks off the beach and sees us, it could get complicated. I point at each one, saying, "Do not come close to these two... ever. If anything happens to them, a car runs over them, or they fall off a ladder, anything at all... I'm coming for you three, and next time, I won't be gentle!" There's some muttering under their breath, but I can't make out what it is. Probably not flattering to me.

I nod my head at the boys, and they follow me out from under the ramp. I'm high as a kite from the adrenaline rush. In a little while, I'll feel sick to my stomach, but right now, I say, "Hey, Jameson! Dude, nice to meet you, bro. I'm Zach," and hold out my fist, the one without the cut knuckles. He bumps fists, muttering, "Holy fuck." 

That's the third time he's said that, and I chuckle. Then, say, "I'll see you tomorrow, Markie." He nods his head, looking as if he's in shock. Smiling, I mumble, "It's cool... no worries," and start walking to the parking lot where I parked my car a few hours ago. When I'm halfway across the street, Markie calls, "Thanks..." I wave a hand and keep walking.

By the time I get to my car, the boys are disappearing around the corner at the end of the block on their way to Jameson's car. Standing here, I watch the SUV slowly backing up, turning around, driving to the end of the block, and turning left. The boys went right. Okay then.

Driving away, I have nausea from the adrenaline rush, which is the body producing an excessive amount of hormones in a fight-or-flight situation. It's short-lived, the nausea is, followed by a brief feeling of euphoria. I take deep breaths until a calmness sets in, and then I don't feel all that good about beating up those guys. I was letting built-up frustration about what happened to Bruce and others in that disgusting pussy boy club add to my abhorrence of the bullying those guys did to Markie and his friend. I could have gotten the point across with less force, I suppose. It's in the history books now, though, so fuck it...

Back at the apartment, I'm drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette on the balcony, talking myself into believing I did the right thing with those three bullies. Yeah, a broken nose, a punch in the mouth loosening a tooth, and knocking out the rat face guy. Any of those things could accidentally happen during a pickup basketball game or two-touch football, and no one would think twice about it. I'm being too hard on myself, and I think that's because I'm a tough motherfucker, but not a macho one. And, to stretch the rationalizing further, maybe beating those three punks up will prevent them from bullying the next skinny young gay boy they meet.

I need to think less about that and more about something fun, such as meeting Dean later tonight. Finally, I wash and put disinfectant on my cut knuckles, then get another beer and think about what I'll do for dinner. I don't like eating out alone, so I'm going to try cooking something on the grill. How hard can that be? It's almost six o'clock and two beers later before I work up the energy to shower and shave, get dressed, and then drive to the grocery store a mile away.

Walking up and down the aisles of the grocery store carrying a basket, feeling weird, I put two corn on the cobs in the basket, then a couple of big fat tomatoes, a big head of lettuce, a long cucumber, pre-cooked mashed potatoes in a package, and finally a half-pound Angus Beef tenderloin steak. Huh, that wasn't hard, although it took me twenty minutes because I didn't know where anything was. Not feeling adventurous enough to try the self-checkout registers, I stand in line at a register with a check-out clerk.

The register clerk is an old guy, probably retired, who is definitely not in a hurry. God, this is tedious, but I finally get checked out, pay $32.65, and carry my plastic bag of groceries out of the store. Grocery shopping isn't something I'm likely ever to want to do routinely. Ten minutes later, I can say the same thing about shucking corn, but I do it and cook the corn in boiling water as someone did for the Fourth of July cookout. The corn is delicious, dripping with butter and salt.

Yeah, I ate the corn on the cob first because it seemed too complicated to have everything ready at the same time. I microwave the mashed potato package and make a salad. Then, firing up the gas grill, I put the steak on and closed the lid as Cowboy did with the baby-back ribs that time. Hmm, how long to cook it, though? After four minutes, I peek at the steak and then use a fork to turn it over and put the lid down for another three minutes. The steak is almost kind of thick, but it should be cooked enough, right? I put it on a plate, put some heated mashed potatoes next to it, and sat down with the salad and a beer to eat.

The steak is pretty rare in the middle, but juicy and 'effing delicious! The mashed potatoes do not taste like any mashed potatoes I've ever had before, but what the hell? I eat some anyway. I forgot to buy salad dressing, so I had to use the bottle Bruce brought with honey in it. Overall, this dinner was a huge pain in the ass, but it was okay. So, not bad... the corn and the steak were especially good. Cowboy will be here tomorrow, and he'll do the cooking.

After eating, cleaning up the mess is another annoying chore, but I do it the way Bruce would have if he were here. After washing up in the bathroom and brushing my teeth, I'm finally ready to go pussy boy hunting. It's only seven o'clock, though, so I sit on the deck smoking another cigarette, accepting the fact that I'm not really very good on my own. I'm rarely on my own, which is why I'm not good at it. Life is so much better, so much easier when Bruce is with me, and I don't mean just for the sex. He plans and knows how to do everyday stuff. Haha, he's an adult. I've kidded him about that, but it's a fact.

I'm not proud that I suck at every day, um, normal shit like shopping and cooking, but there are plenty of things I can do that many others cannot. The problem is, they're not especially useful things outside of school and the military. I was a good student and a good Navy Seal, but since I'm not interested in applying what I learned in school, and, haha, I don't need to, what I learned isn't doing me any good. And, except for rare incidents, my military training is not doing much for me either. And why do I think about shit like this?

Jumping up, I scream, "Ahhh!" Snap out of it!" Then check to be sure I have money, cigarettes, my wallet, and the key fob for the car, and then out the door, I'm on my way to do something I am good at... getting fucked. Dean said to look for him around 50th Street near a bowling alley/lounge. They serve drinks at the bowling alley, which is where the lounge part comes into play. I'm not interested in bowling or drinking, so I probably won't be going inside.

Cruising down 50th Street with the top down, nightfall still an hour away, I don't see anybody who could be a Pussy Boy. Okay, I will go inside the bowling alley/lounge after all. Maybe the pussy boys are in there psyching themselves up for a night of whoring. There are a half dozen cars in the parking lot, and inside, I see four of the ten bowling lanes in use and five guys at the bar in the so-called lounge, none of them looking like a pussy boy.

Sitting at the bar, as far away from the three guys as I can get, I order a bottle of Heineken. A woman bartender with a sleeve of tattoos on her right arm gives me the change from my ten-dollar bill, which I leave on the bar for now. Then, she stands there, so I look up, and she says, "If you're looking for Ralph, he's not coming in tonight." 

Shaking my head, I smile and say, "No, I'm not looking for anyone," which isn't totally the truth since I'm looking for a pussy boy. Not one named Ralph, though. She walks away, mumbling, "My mistake." That was odd, and then a minute later, it got odder when a young fellow sat next to me, touched my arm, and said, "Hi, I'm Luke, and I'm late, I know." He giggled, adding, "So... aren't you going to buy me a drink?" 

He's not a pussy boy, although he's attractive in a girlie kind of way. He's about five feet nine and has a decent build, although, with his baggy shirt, it's hard to tell. And, as I said, he has a girlie look with long light-brown hair pulled back into a stubby ponytail, and he's wearing very subtle makeup on his face that I need to look closely to tell it's there. I'm looking closely now while saying, "You've mistaken me for someone else." He grins, "Ralph said you were a shy one. It's okay; we'll go slow and just talk at first, getting to know one another."

Why the hell not? I motion to the bartender, and she saunters down, trying for sexy but not succeeding, and asks this guy, "What'll you have, Luke?" He does something girlie with his shoulders as he touches his lips with his index finger, "Hmm, what do I feel like drinking tonight?" 

I'm rolling my eyes, glancing at him as he goes, "I'll have a rum and Coke, Beth. That's what I'm gonna stick with all night. That's if Bobby here wants to get drunk before partying." Beth gets the rum and Coke as I tell Luke, "I'm not Bobby." He giggles, and Beth puts his drink in front of him on a coaster and then moves the change from my ten with her finger, saying, "You're two dollars short, Bobby." 

Oh boy, that's an expensive rum and Coke. Giving her a 'look,' I put another ten on the bar, and she takes it, rings up the drink, and puts three dollars in change with the other bills on the bar. Luke has little hoop earrings, miniature pirate earrings, and a tattoo that says YUMMY on his right forearm that extends for about three inches. He looks at me and asks, "How'd you happen to meet Ralph? And, ya know, he didn't describe you very well at all, so it must have been a quick encounter."

Ignoring the beer glass that came with the bottle of beer in deference to a faint lipstick outline at the rim, I swallow beer from the bottle, then say with a smile, "I've never known anyone named Ralph in my life, and my name is not Bobby. Why do you insist it is?" 

He giggles, then he says, "No flames, no games. No hellos, no goodbyes. No aches, no pains. Just slam-bam, alakazam," then motions at me with his rum and Coke and drinks half of it in one long swallow. He says, "You need some mara-joo-wanna, Bobby. That'll loosen you up." 

I can't help but laugh, then mumble, "I have no fucking idea what any of that shit you just said means."

He says, "You know what, Bobby? You are a good-looking dude, and your body is mucho-hot, so how come you need my services? You could walk into any gay club in town and hook up in ten minutes." 

"So, you're a gay, um, escort then. Is that it?" 

He laughs, then goes, "You're a funny dude, too." 

I ask, "Whaddaya think of your competition on the street?" 

"Hey, I'm not a street person. Do I look like one of those fags? I'm a professional, Bobby. Why do you wanna insult me?" 

Sure, I'd give him a shot at it, except he's already got a client who, I assume, will be showing up momentarily. With that in mind, I say, "Look, you're a delightful albeit obtuse fellow, so I'm going to do you a favor and take off after this beer. You're, um, Bobby person will be showing up, and he'll be disappointed to see you hustling me." 

He says, "Honest to God, you're saying you didn't hook up with Ralph? He didn't arrange for you to meet me here at seven-thirty?" I mutter, "Scout's honor, I'm not your guy." 

"Yeah, he would have mentioned your, um, special looks and so forth. I should have been suspicious, but where the fuck is my guy?"

Then, right on cue, a mousey-looking dude with a seriously receding hairline is standing, hunched over, two feet away, saying, "Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt, but, um, are one of you Luke?" 

Under his breath, Luke mutters, "Shit," then slides off the stool and brightly says, "I'm Luke, and you're Bobby. Come on down here, and we'll have a drink. Okay?" 

Bobby frowns and says, "How much do the drinks cost?" as Luke guides him to sit at the bar, away from me, a few stools. Luke gives me a smirk, mouthing silently, "My bad," and then leans in close to mousey Bobby and talks quietly to him. Mousey appears very jittery.

Finishing my beer, I grab some of the money on the bar, leaving two bucks for the tattooed waitress, and walk out of the bowling alley. It's beginning to get dark now, so maybe there's finally some action on the street. Well, hell, look at that! There's a pussy boy talking to a prospective client in the parking lot. He's talking through the guy's car window. It's not Dean, though, and this guy is too big for my taste. He's taller than me and looks as though he weighs more than me, too. I can't see his face, but he's wearing the uniform and has a military-style haircut.

It's never occurred to me that pussy boys are as big as me, but that's dumb. I mean, Richard was hot to recruit me, and Bruce was excited about it, too. I prefer smaller guys who are on the slim side, although, come to think of it, Dean isn't skinny. He's like five-nine with a sturdy body type, and he's not cute either. Yeah, but he's young-looking, and he has a beauty mark on his cheek that I thought was cool... haha. See, I'm talking myself into him.

Getting in my car, I'm like, hmm, it's doubtful there would be more than two pussy boys working the same area, so, as imperfect as he is, Dean will do just fine. Yeah, but I've lost my enthusiasm for him. I mean, Luke would have been a better option except for him being occupied with mousey Bobby and Luke being slightly girlie. Oh, well...

I consider paying the price to choose a pussy boy online, then reject that as too time-consuming. I need some action sooner rather than later, so I drive off to cruise the street looking for Dean. Goddammit, I wouldn't need to do this if Bruce wasn't so fucking stubborn about making money to pay his way. 

After a half-hour of unsuccessful cruising, going two miles each way back and forth on 50th Street, I stop at the bowling alley/lounge again and go inside. It's a long shot, but maybe Luke is available by now. Sitting at the bar, which is now very busy, I need to sit between a man and woman couple on my right and two college-age guys on my left. The tattooed lady bartender comes down the bar and drops a cardboard coaster in front of me, saying, "Hey, you're back. What'll it be this time, good-looking?" I get another Heineken with a clean-looking glass but drink out of the bottle anyhow while watching four loud-mouth teenage boys bowling. 

The man and woman on my right are arguing about money matters, so they're probably married. The college kids on my left are deciding whether to go to a beach party a girl they met invited them to or stay here and get drunk. One of the guys, the one right next to me, has a very deep voice that's getting on my nerves. He has the kind of voice that makes it seem as though he needs to clear his throat of mucus before speaking. He doesn't do that, plus the guy ends everything he says with, 'and that's not what I'm looking for.'  

This blows, so I take my half bottle of beer and walk over to stand near the front glass door, chugging the rest of the beer. As I do that, I see Luke smoking a joint in the parking lot, talking with an older man. The older guy looks to be in his late thirties, wearing too-long baggy shorts, sneakers with kneesocks, a button-up front shirt with big flowers on it, and a straw safari-type hat. He can't be more than five feet tall with at least a sixty-inch waist. I'm betting he's Ralph, a/k/a Luke's pimp, which the bartender told me wasn't expected here tonight.

Putting the empty beer bottle in a trash container near the door, I go outside and walk over to Luke and the weird little man. Luke looks up and hits the older man's arm, saying, "There he is!" Then, he says to me, "I was just telling my man about mistaking you for Bobby." 

He giggles, adding, "Oh fuck, Bobby was a major league loser, huh?" When I'm near enough, he passes me the joint as if we're buddies. I take a hit off it, hold it in for two seconds, then, while exhaling, I say, "He appeared to be, yeah." Ralph is all business, asking, "How do you like being an undercover cop?" 

Luke laughs as I pass the joint to him.

I shake my head, mumbling, "I'm not in law enforcement, Ralph." 

He asks, "How do you know my name then?" Bruce smirks at me, saying, "He's suspicious of every-fucking-body," and then looks at Ralph, "I just fucking told you I mistook him for that hamburger, Bobby. I mentioned your name; that's how he knows it." 

Ralph changes his tune, smiling and asking, "Oh, my man. Hey, are you interested in an escort to have some fun with tonight? Some hot fun tonight with my boy here?" 

Luke passes me the joint, and I take a drag, hold the smoke in, exhale, and then mutter, "I don't know. Should I?" Ralph's voice is ridiculously high-pitched, and it seems to require a lot of effort to get words out. He strains to say, "Yeah, you should. You won't find a more accommodating escort than Luke. Not in the Atlantic City area, or the East Coast, for that matter."

Oh, brother! 

I ask, "How do you know? You haven't met all the escorts on the East Coast." I'm just fucking with him, but he takes hold of Luke's arm, pulling him, saying to me, "Have a nice night, asshole," and to Luke,  "C'mon Luke, we're wasting our time here." 

I grin at Luke as I give him the joint. He shrugs, "Check me out later, dude." Pulling on his arm, Ralph mutters, "I want you at the end of the block with Snitch." 

Huh, maybe I'll check Snitch out. Christ, the guy in the bar had a voice like a foghorn, and this odd guy's voice was so shrill it made my eardrum vibrate. I'm horny, but I don't feel the need to negotiate with that dufus-looking dwarf. I'll wait until he takes off, and then I'll deal directly with Luke or maybe Snitch. 

Before that, though, I drive 50th Street again for one last chance to see the car-washing pussy boy, Dean. And, I finally do see him. I see him on my second trip up and down the street, but he's getting into a Jeep, and the Jeep drives away. Fuck! The weird thing is, Ralph wanted Luke at the end of the block with Snitch, but I've passed every block on 50th Street for two miles and haven't seen him. He must have meant at the end of a block off 50th Street so he wouldn't be competing with the two pussy boys. With that in mind, I drive down streets off 50th Street. I have to chuckle because Luke acted insulted that I'd think he was a street prostitute, and that's exactly what his pimp has in mind for Luke tonight. 

Driving down the third block, I see a guy leaning against a stop sign. What are the chances of a lone guy spending his night leaning against a stop sign? That would be zero unless he were soliciting. The problem is, he looks like he's fifteen. I need to stop at the stop sign anyway, so I stop and take a chance, saying, "How ya doing tonight, Snitch?" 

He comes right over to the passenger side of my convertible and goes, "Gee, I'd remember you. How'd you know my name?" 

"Never mind that. How the fuck old are you?" He says, "Oh, since when have they been providing BMW convertibles for cops?" 

I say, "I'm not a cop. I was talking with Luke and Ralph earlier." He frowns and takes out his cell phone, muttering, "You made arrangements with Ralph? He didn't text me."

Snitch is not cute so much as he's pretty, like Cowboy's pretty. 'Guy' pretty, not girl pretty. I mumble, "Nope, Ralph called me an asshole, so..." 

"Yeah, he does that. So, whaddya want?" He's average height and fairly slim, has a recent haircut but in a long-hair style, and looks clean. I can't believe he's eighteen, though. I say, "Get in, and we'll discuss it." No hesitation, he gets in, saying, "Christ, thank God! This night has been slower than shit."

Pulling away, I ask, "Seriously, are you eighteen?" 

"Yeah... this bullshit happens to me all the time," and he shows me his license. If he were a pussy boy, I wouldn't doubt that he's legal age. The license he shows me says he's eighteen, but it could be a fake license. But then, maybe it's real. After glancing at it, I ask, "What's the deal?" He lights a cigarette without asking if I mind, then says, "That depends. What are you interested in?" 

Shrugging, I mumble, "You, to start with. I like bottoming." He exhales smoke, saying, "Who doesn't? Do you want it in the car or back at my place? In the car, it's the going rate... a hundred bucks. At my place, it's one-fifty." 

Glancing at him, I like his arrogance and ask, "Which do you prefer?" He snorts out a chuckle, muttering, "Whaddaya think?" 

I say, "Your place," and he says, "Genius. You're a genius or a mind reader." I grin, "Where's your place, Snitch?" Yeah, this guy will do. He turns on the radio, changes the station, then says, "Turn right at the light." With country music playing loudly, he gives me the rest of the directions as he smokes, flicking the ashes out into the night. As I'm parking on the street where he indicates, Snitch flicks his cigarette butt and says, "Luke might be using the other rooms. Just a heads up." 

It's an apartment building that has seen better days, but I wouldn't expect anything else. This is a first for me, going to a prostitute's place, which, as I was just informed, is Luke's place too, although I'll bet neither of them lives here. We get out and walk to the front door, which isn't locked. Snitch says, "There are three floors of apartments and no elevator that works, but our place is on the first floor, so no problem." 

I ask, "Are people living in all these apartments?" He nods, "As far as I know, it's fully occupied. We don't live here... it's our place of business. Our office, so to speak." Shit, I hope Ralph isn't here.

The apartment is the first one on the left, and Snitch needs to use a key to get in. As we walk in, I ask, "What's your real name?" He says, "The lights are on, so Luke is here. Um, you don't need to know my real name. Use my nickname," and he yells out, "It's me, Luke." 

The apartment is surprising in that it's, um, not dumpy. We walked into the living room right from the corridor; it has two windows on the left wall. A small kitchen is on the right; straight ahead is a hallway that Snitch leads me to. Then, down a three-foot hallway is a bedroom. If we went ten feet in the other direction, there's a closed door. Snitch nods at it, saying, "Luke has the small bedroom; the bathroom is that door there," Pointing at a door two feet down the hall.

The bedroom we walk into is small, but it does have a window. It's about eight feet by eight feet, so I can't imagine how small the so-called small bedroom is. There's a double bed and an upholstered chair; nothing else. The bed has two pillows, one still retaining an impression of the back of someone's head. There's a fitted sheet, and that's it. 

I ask, "Have you used this room tonight?" 

"Once, two hours ago. That's how slow the action has been tonight." He holds his hand out, saying, "You pay upfront." I fish a hundred and fifty dollars from my pocket. He takes it, asking, "What's your preference? Naked, pants down, what?" 

I shrug, "Let's do naked." It's his turn to shrug, and then he steps out of his low-cut sneakers with no socks, takes a condom from his pocket, and drops his shorts. He's wearing bikini-style underpants, but they're male, not female. As I take my shirt off, he casually pulls his underpants off, and a nice big cock flops out. I knew it would be big because I saw the bulge it made in the bikini underpants. 

He says, "You can handle a big dick, I hope." Nodding, I step out of my sandals and then drop my shorts and underpants. He says, "The pussy boys are hairless too. Is that a coincidence?" 

"What's a pussy boy?" Shaking his head one time, he mutters, "Nothing. It's not important." Then, "You have the option to suck a boner on me, or I can stroke it. Same price either way." He's got soft-looking hair across his chest and a happy trail of hair from his belly button to a lot of pubic hair. Not ideal from my point of view, plus, without the baggy shirt, I see his body has no definition. He's not flabby; there is just no definition on his torso. 

I ask, "Um, what'd your first client do earlier?" 

"He wanted to suck my dick. Most bottoms do, but it's your choice." I mutter, "Yeah, I'll suck your dick." He casually says, "Ya know, pussy boys have haircuts similar to yours, too. No pubes and that stupid haircut. What's your act, bro?" My hair is too long on top now to qualify for pussy boy status, but he's suspicious. And, fuck, I must be a terrible liar because when I try lying, I always get caught. 

I shrug, "Yeah, I was a recruit for a couple of weeks, but it didn't work out." 

"Bro, I don't give a shit. As long as you pay me, I'll fuck you no matter what you've done in the past." This isn't going to be very good, but I'm committed. I nod and ask, "Are we ready to go?" He says, "Go to it."

Getting on my knees in front of him, I pick up his cock. It's not quite as long as Bruce's, maybe a half-inch shorter but fatter than Bruce's, although not as fat as Richard's cock, and, oddly, for a cock this big, it's got a pointy head. That'll help the entry some. Licking it from his nuts to the pointy head, I taste the substance that rubbed off from the inside of the condom he used earlier tonight. There's also saliva from his first customer, but I don't think about that for long because I've already got one pale-brown pubic hair in my mouth. One lick, and there's pubic hair in my mouth, fuck!

He has his hands on his shoulders, not touching my head, which is a first when I'm sucking a guy's dick. Ignoring the pubic hair, I lick up and down all around his large penis, not feeling it firm up much, so I suck on the pointy head, getting my tongue swirling around it as I suck with my lips and feel myself slipping into a submissive sense. Not like I do with Bruce, but I'm sensing a weak sense of Snitch's dominance from his posture. He's a pro I'm paying to let me suck his cock, so why wouldn't I feel submissive to him?

As usually happens when I'm sucking cock, I really get into it, licking and sucking the head and bobby up and down on the hardening shaft. His cock begins getting hard after two minutes or so, which tells me this guy has been doing this for a couple of years and is not impressed with my oral sex skills. He's been sucked off so many times; nothing impresses him in that regard. I hold his semi-hard cock against his belly while I lick his balls, lifting his scrotum with my tongue, and then lick, lick, lick on his lower big ball. Finally, my tongue begins to ache, I feel precum drooling on my fingers, and a second later, he pushes my head away, mumbling, "That's all for now, bro. Back off." 

See, he said that really dominant like. He also sounded bored, and I'm having a hard time maintaining a submissive sense. He rolls the condom on his big-boy boner, asking, "Your choice, how do you like it? On your back, stomach, all fours, standing... what?" 

I say, "You choose," and he roughly bends me over the bed, my chest flat on the mattress, the side of my face on a sheet that smells like ass. There is a scratchy patch near my stomach that I'm pretty sure is someone's dried cum. My legs aren't bent at all, so with his foot, he kicks my feet apart a little at a time until my ass has lowered to the perfect height for him. He quickly mumbles, sounding rote, as if he's said these same words six hundred times, "If anything bothers or hurts you enough that you want me to stop, simply say stop." 

That's basically what I used to tell pick-up guys when I was a top, except I didn't say it as if I was a recording. Two seconds later, I felt the nipple at the end of the condom hit my asshole. His pointy-headed boner hits, and he pushes his cock inside my ass and slowly spreads my rectum open, then continuing to push his hard fat cock inside me until his pubic hairs tickle and then flatten against my buttocks. And, yeah, it's a big cock, and, yeah, it hurt a lot, but I'd turned my head, so my face was against the ass-smelling sheet to muffle my groans of pain. He pulled his cock back and pushed it in the same way he did it the first time, and it hurt just as much, and my groan was a little louder. Snitch says nothing. He's not holding onto my hips, and, other than his cock, he's not touching me at all, and he's not bending over with his hands on the bed either. Bored, he's probably got his hands on his hips again, or he's checking his watch to see what time it is.

Somewhere around the fourth or fifth identical steady penetration, the pain began to switch over to a very sexy, pleasant feeling. Then it got better and better, and I started squirming my torso on the bed, which must signal to him that I was ready to get fucked for real. He increased the speed of his thrusting, doing only three-inch thrusts smacking against my buttocks hard, Slap, slap, slap," with sensations gathering steam, and I began letting out some moans of pleasure while not feeling particularly submissive. He uses different angles of penetration with that big cock of his, and that's igniting every nerve ending it can find. Oh, yeah, this feels fabulous, but then, quickly, my climax is on me, and with a squeal into the ass-smelling sheet, my hips hump, and I blow a big load of cum out fast, then a smaller one, both hitting near the scratchy area of dried cum.

I'm doing my usual shuddering as Snitch pulls his cock out and, without saying a word, walks down the hall naked, I suppose, to flush the condom. It was a two-minute fuck with fifteen seconds of orgasmic after-effects that ended before he got back from the bathroom. He tells me, "Get dressed and give me a ride back to the corner." That was like getting fucked by a machine or a robot.

Standing, I'm like, "Wait, um, I was horny and shot off almost immediately. It was too quick." He's putting his bikini underpants on, saying, "That's not my fault." Then he stops and goes, "I'll do you again right now for another hundred." Fuck that. Shaking my head, I mutter, "Nah, never mind," and we both get dressed.

Outside, Snitch lights a cigarette but doesn't have anything to say. I'm waiting for him to ask for a tip, but he never does. I drop him off at the corner; he says, "Anytime, bro." As I drive away, I realize that fuck doesn't qualify as the worst one ever because it felt fantastic for the last sixty seconds, and my climax was a good one, but it was far from the best fuck I've ever had. Compared to Bruce's fucks that was like jerking off.

It was disappointing, to say the least, but it did relieve my horniness somewhat. Damn, it seems each fuck I pay for keeps getting worse than the one before it. I had some good sex in New York with the pussy boys there, so what's happened since then? Is it just a bad run of guy prostitutes? Maybe it's me. Looking at the dashboard clock, I see it's ten of ten. That's too early to call it a night. What I need is a cocktail. Specifically, Jack on the rocks, and maybe I'll gamble a little as well. Yeah, I haven't done that for weeks.

While driving to the boardwalk, I realized I might run into Richard or one of his flunkies. That's an interesting possibility. In fact, I'm going to gamble at the hotel he picked me up in or I picked him up in. No, get serious; Richard picked me up and handled me like I was a child. He was so much better at it than me; it was ridiculous. He'll have a more difficult time of it should he try it again, which he wouldn't dare. That's a pipe dream, but if I do see him... hmm, what to do?

Well, I smacked him the last time I saw him, so if he sees me, I expect he'll disappear quickly. Because I'm familiar with the area, I park near the hotel we stayed at for a month. I get a couple thousand dollars from the trunk, all hundred dollar bills, and walk the block to the boardwalk feeling dangerous and looking for trouble. Can a submissive bottom feel dangerous and look for trouble? Yeah, macho or not, if the submissive bottom is an ex-Navy Seal, he can.

In the hotel/casino, I sit at a hundred-dollar blackjack table with two others, and in twenty seconds, a waitress asks, "Can I get you something to drink?" They like getting the players drunk and making poor decisions. Drinking two Jack Daniels on the rocks with a splash, it takes me forty minutes to lose my two thousand dollars. I know all the plays I'm supposed to make when the dealer's shown card is this or that and when my cards are this or that, but I've got shit for luck.

Given up on that, I sit at the bar and have another drink while putting money in a blackjack machine with no better luck than I had at the table. Christ, the money I spend on sex and lose at blackjack I could give to Bruce, and he wouldn't need to be doing that shit job in Philly. Except, he wouldn't accept the money.

A guy sits next to me and pats my arm, asking, "Having any luck? I ask because I won two hundred bucks off that machine an hour ago." 

He's a nice-looking guy about my age or a little older. I shrug, "No luck; you've obviously won all this machine is programmed to lose." He sits next to me and says, "This sounds like bullshit, but it's not. Didn't you and I meet in a hotel bar in Arizona about three months ago? You were traveling with your younger brother." 

Before I can answer, another guy comes over and sits next to this guy, saying to him, "Frank, I don't want to get hung up in this shit hole." Frank ignores the guy and says to me, "Zach! That's your name, right?" 

I don't remember him, but I was drinking a lot when Cowboy and I traveled to the West Coast and back right after Ronny was killed. I say, "Jeez, yeah. I was pretty drunk during that trip, but the kid isn't my brother. Um, did we have a good time?" 

Frank says, "I sure as shit did, and you didn't seem especially drunk. I'm Frank Springer." Shaking my head slightly, I bump fists with him, mumbling, "Zach McMann, but I don't remember our meeting." The other guy mutters, "What's happening?" Frank explains and buys a round of drinks. The other guy introduces himself as Mike Aronopolis, and he's a bit of a loud, know-it-all type of guy. The drink is going down smoothly, though, and I'm getting mellow. 
Leaning over, talking to me past Frank, Mike goes, "Dude, you probably won't be able to comprehend this any more than a fucking ant on an anthill can comprehend the technology of a society somewhere in the cosmos that's managed to survive for a million years. Compare that civilization to the evolution of Homo sapiens, which started 4.2 billion years ago. Modern man, 400,000 years ago. Holy hell, the seeds of human civilization didn't begin until about 20,000 years ago. Then recorded history not until 5000 years ago."

I'm mumble, "What? Everybody knows that shit, Mike. What are you, a history teacher?" 

Frank chuckles, "Jesus, he's on this kick again," and Mike says, "Just saying, the Universe has been in existence as far as we know for 13.8 BILLION years and us humans, as we know ourselves, for about a measly five thousand years."

I mutter, "So what?" Frank just ordered another round, and, Goddammit, I was thinking about leaving. Mike drains his bourbon and ginger, saying, "The Universe couldn't give a shit what we do or don't do. Hitler, Idi Amin, Middle Age Catholic torture machines, whatever. The universe doesn't care about horrendous or spectacularly joyous events in human history. The unfeeling Universe couldn't give a rat's ass about any of that. It doesn't even know or care what a rat's ass is." He's slurring his words. Thankfully, his new drink arrives, and he stops talking and slurps some of it.

Frank tells me, "This is Mike's favorite drunk rant." 

I don't know if Frank and maybe Mike think they're picking me up or what. If they do, they're going to be disappointed. Mike goes, "All our intricate details of human's various religions mostly are trying to get humans to feel okay about dying. The darkness of deep, non-dreaming sleep is what death is like. A trillion, trillion, trillion viruses have died, a number so high we can't compute it in our lacking brains. Yet, the virus has been around way before us and will be here when we're gone."

Getting seriously annoyed, I go, "I don't give a shit, Mike." Then to Franks, "I've gotta get going." 

Frank says, "I thought we could..." but Mike interrupts, "What I'm saying to you, Zeke," I mutter, "It's Zach," but he goes on, "Don't romanticize death, rather embrace the short time you're alive because when you die, you won't know it, and you won't know you were ever alive either... you'll have no consciousness at all. You'll turn to dust from where, I know, it's a corny Bible thing, but in this case, correct... you'll become the dust you were made of... stardust. The Universe cares about you so little it's incomprehensible for you to imagine. The Universes cares about your or my death infinitely less than it cares about a dust mote in a stream of light. Much less than a dust mote in the infinity of space."

Sliding off the barstool, I put a twenty on the bar, mumbling, "I need to buy you a drink for that epistemology lesson, Mike." Then I say, "Frank, it's been a great reunion." 

He says, "Hey, do you have a room here?" 

Shaking my head, "No, sorry. It's been, um..." Then we both look at Mike arguing with the bartender, who is questioning if Mike has drunk his limit. As Frank chirps in that Mike's fine, I slip away and out the door to the boardwalk. If Bruce were with me, I wouldn't have wasted an hour of my life in that bar. Well, that was the most random, bizarre coincidence of my life: meeting a bar pick-up, I don't even remember from Arizona. What are the chances I'd run into him here in Atlantic City? Unbelievable! I just realized another unbelievable thing, and it's that when I walked up the boardwalk a few hours ago, I passed the pussy boy locker room without giving it a thought. And there it is, a block up ahead as I'm walking back to my car. 

Looking over at the boardwalk's beach-side railing, I think back to that night with Richard. The thing I tend to forget about him is how incredibly good-looking and handsome he was or still is. It was only ten weeks ago, but it seemed much longer than that. He's almost as good-looking as Cowboy, and that's saying a lot. When I'm a few yards from the locker room, someone comes out the door and leans against the building, lighting a cigarette. No, it's a joint... there is no mistaking the smell of marijuana smoke.

Getting closer, I see the guy is obviously a pussy boy. Without consciously planning to, I walk right up to the guy and ask, "Are you still, um, I don't know, on duty or whatever?" 

He's older, in his middle twenties, with a crisp recent haircut. He's a few inches shorter than me and too old to be cute, but he's okay-looking with a nice tan, looking fit wearing a rumpled pussy boy uniform. He exhales smoke while looking at me with no expression on his face. After maybe three seconds that seemed longer, I add, "No offense intended, um, I just, ah..." 

He says, "Stand over here next to me. Get the fuck out of the foot traffic and be cool about this shit." 

It's well after midnight, so there isn't a helluva lot of foot traffic on the boardwalk, but I do what he said. He takes a tote off the joint, holds the smoke in, then exhales the smoke in my face but doesn't say anything. After another hour-and-a-half, which actually was five or six seconds of silence, I ask, "Can I have a drag?" 

He mutters, "No," and I say, "Sorry for bothering you," and take a step away, but he says, "Jesus Christ, can you wait a fucking minute? I'm on break. Just stay where you are. I'll get to you..." He's an experienced one, arrogant as hell. Well, even the young ones I've paid for were confident and, in my case, haha, that's usually not a problem, so I stand here. At least it's not standing in a corner.

He takes his time smoking the joint and then steps on the roach and says, "I just finished a ten-hour street duty for my main man, Richard, but you're right here, so what do you have in mind?" 

My dick quivers hearing Richard's name. This guy is one of Richard's whores, which makes it even more titillating to me. I mumble, "I'm looking for a, um, a dominant fuck." His eyes drift over to look at me, and I add, "Something hard and rough." 

He uses a finger to scatch a spot at the back of his head near the hairline while exhaling in an exasperating manner, then says, "Two hundred," and casually holds out his hand. Hmm, that kind of pisses me off, but maybe I've finally hit a live one. Nodding, I go in my pocket and come out with some bills. He's looking up, not at me, his hand still held out limply as if he could care less if I do this or not, and I'm beginning to feel the same way.

Damn, this is weird, but I put two hundred dollar bills in the pussy boy's hand. He doesn't even look at the money; he just stuffs the two bills in his pocket. Looking me in the eyes, he goes, "Let me guess. I'm getting a vibe that you're a submissive bottom looking for a dominant daddy to spank and then fuck you silly. Am I right?" 

He has beautiful bright green eyes that go spectacularly with his sun-tanned face. I try to say he can skip the spanking part, but it catches in my throat, and I grunt out, "Um, it's..." and he grips the back of my neck, muttering, "Let's go, big guy." His hand is like a vice, and I again find myself hunching over from the pain in my neck. He pushes me through the front door of the locker room as memories of my first night here flood my brain. Also, memories of five or six other times inside these walls. As he's marching me past the office, I get a quick peripheral glimpse of that room where so much had happened.

He stops us at the second set of lockers, saying, "You big tough guys love to play the little boy role getting fucked, doncha?" 

When I don't say anything, he shakes my head, "Doncha?" I mutter, "No, I never thought of it like that, um..." He sternly says, "Shut up!" and squeezes my neck, then gives my ass a hard slap. Letting go of me, he mutters, "If you weren't so good-looking and had such a hot body, I'd have told you to get lost. I've got a thing about dominating and fucking up a big handsome mommy's boy like you, though. Off duty or not, I couldn't pass this up." 

Mommy's boy?

He says, "Take everything off... quickly!" There's not a lot to take off, so I step out of my sandals and get undressed in ten seconds. As I expect by now, whenever one of these prostitutes sees I'm hairless, there's going to be a reaction, especially from the pussy boys. He goes, "What the fuck?" Using the back of his hand, he swats my junk, asking, "Are you imitating or mocking us?" 

I mumble, "Imitating. I think hairless is a very cool look." He goes, "Yeah? How often have you hired an escort from the club?" I shrug, "A half dozen times, no, probably more than that."

He goes into the locker we stopped at, his locker, I assume. Bringing out a ping pong paddle, he says, "Bend over, hands on your knees." 

"No, ah, I don't need a spanking. Just the..." He whacks my ass, and I screech out, "Ow! Goddammit...". Laying the paddle on the bench, he says, "That's what you'll get if you're a bad mommy's boy. Daddy will discipline you. Now tell me the truth." 

Rubbing my butt cheek, I say, "That was the truth. I've been with a pussy boy four or five times in New York City and three or four times here in AC."

"For Christ's sake, how much allowance does mommy give you, anyway?" 

"It's my money." And, I'm not going into my loss of my mother at birth, meaning I couldn't be a mommy's boy if I wanted to. He smacks my ass with his hand. That didn't hurt, and I'm hesitant to press the point that spanking doesn't really work for me because I don't want him to lose interest, although, strangely, I'm losing interest. It seems that this guy gets a kick out of emphasizing my submissiveness and his dominance, saying, "Stand against the lockers." I hesitate, and he reaches for the paddle, so I do it. He says, "I'm out of condoms." 

I stand there trying to feel submissiveness, but it's not materializing; he leaves to get a condom. After twenty seconds, I step back and sit on the bench, thinking about it. Huh, the sub/dom thing hasn't been working lately. It's mostly me pushing for it to work, talking myself into thinking it's working, but it's not. He comes back and yells, "What did I fucking tell you?" 

I wave a hand at him, then say, "Lighten the fuck up and drop the dominant act. I'm not feeling it, and if you keep pushing it, you're going to end up in one of these lockers." He looks startled, then mutters, "Dammit, I should have told you to fuck off outside."

Shrugging, I mutter, "Yeah, but you didn't." I stand up, and the differences in our sizes have his eyes opening wide as if he's just noticing that I've got a couple of inches on him and fifty pounds of muscle. He takes a step back, sounding totally different now, mumbling, "Um, I got a condom from the office." 

Without knowing I was going to say it, I say, "Give it to me. I'm going to give you the hard fuck, pussy boy." 

He says, "Okay, sure. You paid for it either way," he quickly gets undressed. His dick is like a twin of mine, so it would have been good, although not an amazing fuck. I hold my dick out, and he mumbles, "Oral sex costs extra." 

I give him a hard 'look,' and he goes, "But, you did pay me two hundred, so that covers it." I say in a conversational manner, "Ya know, what you should be thinking about is doing the oral sex so good I might be inclined to tip you." Getting on his knees, he grumbles, "If you don't mind me asking, why'd you play the submissive role? It's sort of not, um, not fair." 

"Shut up and do what you're paid to do."

He's right, though; I'm not being fair. I'm frustrated that, lately, things haven't been working out with the prostitutes. And it hasn't been working out for a while now. But, damn, the prostitute sex was so hot in New York. Yeah, but it was a new thing for me to do back then. It was the first time I paid for sex, which made it kind of fun and exciting. Then, after the early ones, early 'dates' with pussy boys, it seemed to be less and less fun and exciting. Less and less sexually hot, too. It has gotten to be just a routine, same-old thing to do by now.

After these past couple of weeks with Bruce as my boyfriend, by comparison, paying for sex has become even more disappointing because it's not nearly as good as it is with Bruce. Yeah, the newness, the uniqueness, has completely worn off paying for sex. This guy here would probably have been a hotty a month ago, but now I don't even want him to fuck me. How ironic is it that it was in this locker room I got converted from a dominant top to a submissive bottom, and tonight, the reverse has happened? Well, I still want to bottom for Bruce and occasionally for others... maybe.

Picking up my dick, he asks, "Should I stop when I get precum drool from this nice cock of yours?" 

Huh, he's sure changed his tune, but I know they're trained to read their John's preferences, and my abrupt change in attitude was obvious as hell. Nodding, I pat his head, mumbling, "Yeah, sure," and he puts my dick in his mouth. Wow, it's been quite a while since my penis was in a guy's mouth... it feels good. Then it gets way better than good because pussy boys know how to suck cock better than anybody. This guy has a talented mouth, especially his tongue. Holy shit, my cock quickly gets rock-hard. When he starts bobby back and forth on my boner, I go up on my toes, my hands on his head as I gasp, "Ahh, ooh," his fingers are gently squeezing my balls, causing tiny shooting stabs of pain along with the fabulous sensations of pleasure from the million nerve endings in my dick.

Pushing his head away, groaning, "Umm, mmm, that's good. That's enough." Whew, I almost blew my load. Taking a deep breath, I look down at him and see him lick precum from a smear of it on his chin from when I pushed his head away. My boner is ridiculously hard, sticking straight out and throbbing. I take another deep breath, my fist squeezing my saliva-saturated cock. Oh, that felt fantastic. He's still on his knees, looking up as I nod my head at him, mumbling, "Good, that was good. What's your name?" He says, "I'm Randy, sir." A double entendre, no doubt.

"Okay, Randy, I want you to get up and bend over, hands on the bench." He quickly does that just the way a versatile pussy boy should. Doing the fucking or getting fucked, it all means the same to them... Cha-Ching! Money!

Oh man, though, rolling this condom on my super-sensitized boner feels spectacular! Trying to keep the humor from my voice, I say what most pussy boys tell me, "Get your ass up higher!" Grinning, I watch him strain to do that. That's a good pussy boy, but I say, "Higher!" and watch him go up on his toes. Shit, that made my dick quiver a little. There's a lot to be said for being a dominant top, and it's all coming rushing back to me. I slap his ass, muttering, "Keep your pussy right there, boy."

Spreading his butt cheeks as he trembles a little, trying to stay perfectly still on his toes, I nod my head, knowing I'd see a hairless anus that's tightly closed. It won't be tightly closed for long. Gripping his hips with both hands, I move my iron cock straight ahead with my hips until the condom's nipple flattens against the very center of his asshole, then hump it in and feel shivers all over my body as my boner spreads him wide open. He lets out a grunting, "Oooh, ow!"

Oh, Jesus, this feels good. I push my boner inside this incredibly tight tunnel, push it in until my crotch is flat against his hairless butt cheeks, then hump against his buttocks a few times with waves of pleasure sensations swarming all over me, joining the shivers I felt a second ago. I gasp quietly, closing my eyes to savor the awesome feeling of having my cock up a guy's ass again. Oh, shit, why did I ever stop doing this?

Feeling my cock grow even harder, a little fatter, and slightly longer, I hold my breath to keep from moaning like a first-timer. Quietly letting my held breath out slowly, I take in some oxygen and then pull my cock back until the lips of Randy's anus grip it tightly around the neck; then I tease that I'm going to pull it out further and feel his rectum muscles tighten further. Pushing my boner back inside him, he grunts another, "Ah, ow, ooh." I slap his ass, then pull my incredibly hard boner back and ram it back in, and do it again.

It's still very tight inside his rectum, but not as tight as it was, so I start fucking him hard and fast, "Slap, slap, slap." Randy sways to and fro, his hands on the bench, keeping him from falling against it. Soon, his cries of pain are replaced with low moans of pleasure as it starts to feel better and better, with sensations getting stronger and stronger inside him. He goes, 'Um, Um, oh, ooh, oooh..." My face scrunches up at the intense pleasure vibrations coming off my hard penis, getting more intense with each thrust.

As my climax approaches, reaching the tipping point, I'm biting my bottom lip, expecting a climax explosion any second when Randy goes, "Ahhh!" with a hump of his hips. I open my eyes just in time to see a flash of white shooting over the bench, then skidding on the tile floor... a streak of Randy's cum quivers there, and then I blow my load in the condom. Holy shit, I'm shaking and shuddering almost as hard as when I climax as a bottom boy. Omigod, that was awesome! I tighten muscles all around my ass and groin, hoping for a follow-up shot, but that one huge shot was all there was.

Tingling all over, I step back and groan, "Oooh," as I slowly pull my cock out. The streaming and buzzing after-effects of my orgasm make my shoulders shudder for a second, and then there's this really nice feeling around my cock and balls. I pull off the condom and squeeze my softening cock. Umm, that felt good. Randy slowly straightens up, murmuring, "That was wonderful. I hope you'll look for me again real soon." 

That's what they're taught to say, of course. Then he goes, "Here, let me have that, and I'll dispose of it for you." I go, Huh?" and then realize he means the condom I'm holding.

He takes it from my fingers, and I mutter, "Thanks," still savoring that fuck, me as the top for the first time in months. As he goes off to the lavatory, something occurs to me. I thought that climax had me shaking and shuddering almost as much as I do when I climax as a bottom. Yeah, well, as a bottom, you've got sexual pleasure sensations glowing both from your rectum and your cock at climax. On the other hand, there's an undeniable fact that topping adds a certain something extra special to anal sex. I felt it with Randy, and I've felt it in the past, but I still prefer bottoming. 

Yeah, when everything is accounted for top and bottom-wise, I prefer bottoming. I did a lot of bottoming in prep school and college. With Bruce, I definitely always want to bottom, but I can go either way with prostitutes from now on... depending on how I feel. After all, I'm the one paying.

I'm getting dressed when Randy returns, saying, "I cleaned up a little. That's why I took so long," as if he needs to explain that to me. I didn't give it a thought that he didn't return immediately. Why would I care one way or the other? 

I shrug and finish getting dressed. He's still standing there naked. He finally asks, "Um, is it okay if I get dressed now?" 

Huh? Obviously, I don't know the protocol of being a top with a pussy boy. I mumble, "Yeah, sure, whatever," and reach in my pocket for a fifty-dollar bill to tip him. Holding it out, I say, "Nice experience, Randy." 

He says, "Thank you, anytime."

Nodding and not knowing what else to do, I say, "See ya," and walk out of the locker room. On the boardwalk, I take a deep inhale of ocean-scented air, then walk to the ramp and go down it to where my car is parked. I'm feeling pretty fucking good. I'm not horny, and I'm not feeling submissive, and I'm not sure what any of that means. I'll think more about it...

To be continued...