The City & the Night

"Fuck Meat"

Part 1

The orange glow of the streetlights and sound of the Saturday night crowd couldn’t reach me here, sitting at a beer-stained table in a far shady corner of the city’s shittiest backstreet pub, nursing the remnants of a pint and a bruised ego. I’d spent six months without a proper job, had just been dumped -- via text -- by my latest girlfriend, and now the rent was due.

I was hoping to run into Deano, a semi-acquaintance of mine from my student days, who could usually be relied upon for a joint and a pep-talk. I’d texted him but received no reply. Now it was getting late and I’d all but given up. I was draining the last dregs of my glass when a shadow fell across the table.

“You’re blocking my light you cunt,” I deadpanned, not that there was all that much to begin with. Raising my eyes expectantly I saw Deano looking down at me and grinning like a twat; pint in one hand, can of Redbull in the other. “You took your time,” I said as he slid in beside me, patting my leg and pushing the pint under my nose.

“You know how it is. Busy, busy, busy,” he replied cheerily. "Always up to somethin’. You know me mate.”

Deano was originally from London. Why he’d decided to try his luck up north was still a bit of a mystery to me. He was one of those ageless guys; anything from twenty five to forty, a tall, lean redhead, eternally scruffy and hard to pin down. He hadn’t actually gone to uni, God forbid, but he’d become a familiar face at some of the pubs I’d hung out at during that time. He’d never been the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he was always very good at numbers.

I asked if he could sort me out with anything, but if I could pay him later.

“Sorry mate,” he said, “nothin’ doing. Shoulda been in earlier. You got a bit of a cash-flow problem then?” He started tapping his pockets distractedly, feeling for something, then reached round and pulled his phone from the waistband of his trackies and plonked it on the table.

I explained my situation.

“Still managing to get down the gym though I see,” he patted my solid abs. “The Sweet Box ain’t it? Gotta stay in shape for da laydeez eh?”

I snorted into my pint. “The Sweat Box,” I corrected him, “besides, the laydeez, for want of a better word, seem to have expensive tastes these days, and I’ve been living off super noodles for a week.”

He popped the ringpull on his can, spray getting me in one eye, and took a long swig, then gazing sideways at me thoughtfully he leaned in. “Listen, if you’re lookin’ to earn a bit of easy money I might be able to help you out there,” he said.

“I’m all ears,” I replied.

He looked around the bar. “Not here mate, outside.”

*****

In the alley beside the pub Deano went over it one more time.

“It’s like a, wotcha call ‘em, a peepshow,” he was explaining, “only the landlord gets pissed off if people drill holes in the walls so they have to peep from a chair right in front of yer.”

I laughed out loud. “What, and they just... watch?”

He motioned to me to keep it down. “Yeah, you crack one off. They watch. No cameras. No touching allowed. Sorta thing.” He took a quick drag on his roll-up and blew smoke into the night air.

While it was true I wasn’t shy about my body -- in my last year at uni I’d literally got my kit off for the rugby team calendar, and spent a memorable summer supplementing my income by stripping down to a thong at hen parties -- even so, this was a lot different.

He flicked his roll-up on to the ground, stubbing it out under the toe of his 110s and immediately sparked up another, waiting patiently as I mulled it over.

“Tell you what,” he offered, “I’m on my way up there now. Why don’t you come with. See how it goes and if it’s not for you, no harm done. Just this once, yeah? It’ll buy you a lot of noodles.”

Between the beer, my current diet and the long, thin joint he'd miraculously 'found' tucked away in his baseball cap, I had quite the buzz going on.

“Just this once?” I smirked.

“Scout’s honour,” he said. “Besides, you look like the kinda lad who can handle himself alright,” he winked.

*****

Making small-talk, he led me up the road away from the city and the throng of shitfaced undergraduates who annoyed the fuck out of me now I wasn’t one of them.

“You remind me of that guy,” he said, affably, lighting up another rollie. “Whatsisname? Geezer of the Galaxy bollocks.”

“I’ve been told,” I replied casually, secretly gratified. "My mates have started calling me Quilliam." I could practically see the cogs turning.

"I don't get it," he said.

"Don't worry about it," I smirked.

We passed the looming Arts Tower and along beside the railings that surrounded the dark sweep of Crookes Valley Park, narrowly avoiding being floored by some gangling tosser who hurtled towards us down the hill seeming to think he owned the pavement. We walked on for another ten minutes or so, then down a side street, eventually stopping in front of one of the large Edwardian houses which these days were mostly used as student accommodation.

Some of them were still in very good nick. This one, however, had definitely seen better days. A couple of the front windows were boarded up, which had not gone unnoticed by the local Banksy wannabes, and the full moon glinted off broken roof tiles.

They looked like dragon scales.

“Watch that dog shit with yer foot,” I heard him saying.

“What?”

“Yer foot. No, your foot. No, the left one you daft sod. How much have you had anyway?”

He placed a steadying arm around my shoulder as he picked our way clumsily up the overgrown path.

“Who me?” The brisk walk up to the house had made me giddy.

“No, Mother bleedin’ Theresa. Who’d ya think?”

“Just a snifter.” I started to snigger.

“Of what?”

“Booooze.” I hiccupped.

“Christ.”

He eventually got me to the front door in one piece.

“By the way, some of these blokes --” Deano was saying as he rattled the handle trying to get it to open "-- let’s call ‘em clients, well some of ‘em, they tend to talk kinda like you’re, well, merchandise.”

I was confused, “Merchandise?”

He thought for a moment, “Yeah, kinda like they’re shopping at a car boot sale and you’re a Game of Thrones box set with a couple of discs missing.”

I howled. “Nothing missing down here mate,” I patted my groin.

“It’s all just part of the game to them, see,” he continued. “Look, once we’re in there just remember to ignore whatever bollocks I say, do whatever they say and play along till we've clinched the deal. Just think about the money.”

“Think about the money,” I repeated, swaying gently.

“If it helps,” he shrugged, catching me by the arm and propping me against the door which suddenly sprang open.

I fell backwards into a dimly lit hallway.

A swarthy looking bald guy with a paunch was sitting on a chair at the foot of a wooden staircase, reading a newspaper. He looked up for a second, seemingly unconcerned, as Deano gave him a quick nod by way of greeting as he was pulling me to my feet, then went back to his paper.

“Is he one of them?” I whispered, way too loudly.

“Nah,” Deano laughed, “this way fella,” and he led me up two flights of stairs without further hassle.

Along the way we must’ve passed about a dozen or so doors, each with a number scrawled in marker pen, eventually arriving at a room at the far end of an attic corridor. Deano held open the door and I went in.

It was small with bare floorboards and a yellowed net curtain half covering the only window. Wallpaper peeled off the walls and in one of the patches it looked like someone had been doing rudimentary maths. Next to the door was a wooden chair and an old chest of drawers. A dusty bulb hung from the ceiling trying its best to throw light on the situation. In the corner was a double bed with a metal frame and a mattress.

“Welcome to the Penthouse suite, mate,” Deano chuckled apologetically.

Ten minutes later I was sitting on the bed, trying to get comfortable, naked except for a torn black jockstrap which Deano had pulled from one of the drawers. He told me to leave my boots on; white sport socks pulled up over the tops, while he fastened a studded leather collar around my neck, saying it made me look extra butch. Fair enough.

Then I heard the rattle of a chain. It was secured to the bedstead but hidden down the back. He yanked it out and attached it to my collar, soothing away my creeping doubts by giving me a long, deep huff up each nostril from a large bottle of Liquid Gold. Fuck, now we’re talking, I thought. As a final touch he produced a black marker pen and wrote a number above the fur on my chest.

“No names,” he said, and winked again.

Then giving me a quick once over he stepped towards the door. “Right, gotta go mate. We’ve got one due in a minute.” I heard the squeak of something being scrawled on the door outside. Then he was gone.

*****

Now I was free of his constant banter, I had a moment to contemplate the dubious reality of my situation.

In an attempt to zone out my immediate surroundings I idly stroked the flesh of my semi-hard cock which bulged against a frayed hole in the jockstrap, letting my mind wander to all those nameless slags I'd wanked over through the years without giving a shit -- from the stash of Readers’ Wives I'd first found under my older brother's bed to the porn clips I regularly downloaded still cluttering up my hard drive -- legs spread wide and fingering their gaping pussies for all the world to see.

Is that what guys want from other guys as well then? I wondered. The sight of a bit of cock or arse and a quick release then on with their lives? Are blokes all just the same in the end?

I was always happy enough to strutt around bollock-naked in the gym locker room in a kind of cocky display of masculine bravado while other guys hid behind their towels. I suppose I’ve just always liked the idea of being admired for my physique, up to a certain point. How was this any different? Some sad bloke’s gonna sit there and feast his eyes on what he knows he can never have. I’d be providing a service if anything. In a manner of speaking.

Yeah, I can do this, I decided. Piece o’ piss.

I let myself relax into the idea and even started to feel a bit horny. Then I began to notice noises coming through the walls. There seemed to be quite a bit of moaning going on in some of the other rooms and the unmistakable bounce of bedsprings. Someone’s definitely earning his money tonight, I snickered.

Soon I could hear footsteps coming back along the corridor and Deano’s Estuary English in full flow. This is it then. I glanced down at the jockstrap, gratified to see the poppers were working their magic. I placed my hands behind my head, showing off my furry pits, and let my thighs loll open. Give the little perv a choice view of the goods, I thought. Then the door opened and Deano stepped in, followed by the client.

In the dimly lit room it was hard to get a good look at first but slowly my eyes adjusted, then widened. Fuck.

I hadn’t expected him to be so... handsome; forties, broad-shouldered and a good few inches taller than me, with perfectly chiseled features and thick dark hair sculpted in waves. He was wearing a sharp charcoal grey suit and a tie and carrying a large black briefcase. The light from the corridor caught the gold of a wedding ring. I gulped. He looks like Superman, I thought, with a beard.

Deano closed the door and immediately launched into his salesman’s pitch.

“And here we have number thirteen,” he nodded in my direction.

Eh? I looked down at my chest. Oh right.

“Fresh in today in fact. Jock type. Straight. Aren’t they all. First time being whored out as it ‘appens. Virgin territory you might say. Already got 'em lining up for a piece of this pussy. Lucky for some, eh?” He winked.

I felt my face redden. Fucking pussy?

The Cavill clone, to my further irritation, seemed to feel it necessary to think this over. “I dunno,” he drawled, his voice slow, measured, American. “I usually prefer my beefcake to have a little more... experience. Is this all you can show me?”

Despite his alleged reservations, something about his calm demeanour suggested he was indeed interested. His eyes never left my body and narrowed as they traced the muscular contours of my gym-honed frame. He licked his lips. What was it Deano had told me; something about a game? This one’s angling for a deal, I thought. Letting me know he was doing me no favours, that I was just another nameless piece of wank fodder to him, whose sole purpose was to get him hard and get him off. To devalue me. I'm being haggled over like something on a fucking butcher’s slab.

Then I felt my cock twitch. Fuck.

Sensing that money may well be about to slip through our fingers, Deano gave me a quick, meaningful nod. I blanked for a second, then, strangely mesmerised but with something perversely akin to masculine pride stirring in me, my mind wandered back to girlie mags. Yeah, I’ve fucking got something to show him.

Slowly, teasingly, I raised my legs.

Sliding my hands down the length of my thighs I began to massage the succulent flesh of my arse, spreading it wider and giving the client a tantalising view of my hairy hole. I clenched it a few times, then slid a finger into my mouth getting it good and wet, reached down again and rubbed the spit around my tight rosebud. He stared down at my displayed arsehole with an unreadable, steely gaze.

Feeling something more was required of me in this bizarre game of pussy roulette, I began to moan, gazing up at him with what I hoped looked like hunger in my eyes; quite the actor, I told myself, but whether or not I was fully ready to admit it, the simple truth was that from the moment I’d got a good look at him something else within me -- something other than an inflated machismo -- had been stirred into life.

My body suddenly felt like it was moving on auto-pilot, observing itself from above, as I lay back, leashed and spread wide on a bare mattress in a grubby little room doing all I could to appeal to another man. Offering myself to him like some nameless wank whore. I lowered my legs and began stroking my bulge with one hand and tweaked a pert nipple with the other.

Deano raised an eyebrow, obviously impressed, then hurried back to the deal at hand. “Yeah, sorry mate, all the regulars are full, er, fully occupied for the time being. Tell you what I'll do, seeing as this one's a newbie, you just pay me the basic rate and you can breed it raw at no extra cost.”

My cock twitched again. I bit my lip.

Maintaining his poker-face, the client silently stroked his meticulously groomed beard and pondered Deano’s offer like a particularly choosy diner hesitating over a steak menu. Playing the game. “Let me see its cunt again,“ he said to him,

So maybe it was the booze or the poppers or just the new and unexpected thrill of being sexually debased in the eyes of another man, but all I knew right now was that I wanted this tall, brooding stranger to want me. His dismissive attitude, his casual appraisal of me was fucking turning me on like nothing I could have prepared for. Masculine pride was no longer an issue. I wanted to do whatever it would take to clinch him. To please him. To arouse him. To make his cock harder than anyone had before. To be his ultimate fantasy.

That’s why, without further prompting, and with my heart thudding in my chest, I obediently raised my booted legs and spread my fuck meat wide for his approval.

Just as it seemed it could go either way, he came to a decision...