Ups and Downs

St. Regis

“You were good, kid. The money’s on the dresser.”

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard that line over the past few weeks. I should be in college right now studying business administration and maybe getting a minor in art. Instead, I’m turning tricks near Piedmont Park in Atlanta.

And when I’m not working the streets and the sheets, I spend as much time as I can at the nearest library scouring the newspapers and online services for job listings, but times are hard, and jobs are few and far between, especially for someone with only a high school education.

It’s been almost a month since my dad kicked me out of the house. The envelope my sister Amy gave me on my last day there contained a note from Mom and a couple hundred bucks. That, combined with the money Amy gave me and what I had saved up, allowed me to get from Columbus to Atlanta and kept me housed and fed for about a week, but the money soon ran out, and I found myself sleeping in homeless encampments and eating in soup kitchens.

That’s where I met Andre, who told me I could make some money turning tricks.

“I did that for a while myself,” he said, “and the money was pretty good, but the gig was not always easy. I’m not a big guy like you,” he continued, “so when some of the johns decided to get rough, I was no match for them. But you’re big and strong,” he added, admiringly. “You don’t gotta take no shit offa nobody. You’re damn good looking too. You’ll be very popular out there, make lots of skrilla…benjis.”

Fortunately, I had listened to enough rap music to know that ‘skrilla’ was slang for money and a ‘benji’ was a hundred-dollar bill, named for Benjamin Franklin, whose mug appears on the currency.

And Andre was right. I got $50 for a blow job and $200 for a fuck. Blow jobs were the most lucrative because I could do four or five of those in an hour, often in their cars or sometimes behind a dumpster in a dark alley, whereas a fuck often required an hour and a half or more, including the time it took to get to and from the cheap motels that most of the johns frequented.

In motel rooms, most of the johns wanted to fuck me. They were often married but weren’t getting enough pussy from their wives or girlfriends, so they turned to male prostitutes. Damn! Is that what I have become, a prostitute? Those tricks were lucrative because I could do an unlimited number in a night.

About 20% of the men wanted me to fuck them, and I could usually manage three or four of those in a night and another couple in the morning for guys who wanted a quickie before work or during their lunch break.

A similar percentage didn’t really want oral or anal sex at all. Sometimes they only wanted a hand job or just wanted me to watch while they jacked off or to watch me rub one out, and sometimes they wanted us to beat off together. These guys would often reminisce about what good times they had jerking off with their buddies when they were teenagers.

Another group of men just wanted to cuddle, and sometimes they wanted to talk while we cuddled, mostly about how disappointing sex with their wives or girlfriends had become. It was so obvious that those men were trying to deny their homosexuality, but I couldn’t tell them that. For one thing, they wouldn’t have wanted to hear that from me, and for another, I couldn’t afford to lose the repeat business.

I know it sounds like I was rolling in dough, but there was that one time when I got mugged, and they took all my money. I could have handled one…maybe two…but there were three of those guys, and they had guns. Then there were the crooked cops who would occasionally shake us down. Usually, they just wanted a blow job, but sometimes they would take our money too—as payment for not running us in.

Andre was right about the rough stuff too. I would often see some of the other hustlers go off with some guy and come back with a black eye or a busted nose. Two or three johns tried that with me, but they soon found out that I would take none of that crap. Some guys wanted to spank me, and I was OK with that—up to a point—but if they dared to make a fist, I let them know quickly and in no uncertain terms that that kind of rough stuff was out of bounds.

And then there was that one creep who really freaked me out. He never approached me or any of the other working guys. He just sat there in his big black Mercedes GLS for hours at a time, almost every night for nearly a week. I couldn’t get a good look at him because of the tinted windows that made me wonder if he was an FBI agent, a hit man, a drug lord, a jealous boyfriend, or just a guy trying to work up enough courage to whip out his dick.

Finally, one night I caught a glimpse of him when he got out of the car to go take a leak, and I was surprised at how good looking he was. He was also tall and well built. My first thought was, “Man, if you would just walk into any gay bar, you could take home any guy you wanted,” but, of course, the guys who came to us wouldn’t be caught dead in a gay bar. They would be scared shitless that they would get busted either by the cops, their wives, or their Southern Baptist congregations.

As I said, I usually didn’t have to worry so much about getting roughed up, but there was that one night when I got picked up by two guys who said they wanted to tag team me. I had always enjoyed tag teaming guys in the back of the hardware store with Mr. Sullivan, so I told them I was OK as long as they understood that the cost was the same—$200 apiece. They agreed, and we took off for one of the cheap motels nearby.

Once they got me naked, though, they started to get rough, and when I tried to explain where I drew the line, they just laughed like Satan welcoming new arrivals to Hell and came at me with fists clenched. I got in a few good licks before one of them tackled me to the bed, and the other one started to…. Well, let’s just say it would not have been pleasant except for…BAM. All of a sudden the door flew off its hinges and a stranger burst into the room, banged their heads together, dragged them down the hall, and threw them down the stairs, but not before he rid them of their wallets. It was the good-looking stranger from the black Mercedes SUV.

“Are you all right?” he asked, re-positioning the door behind himself as best he could considering it was off its hinges.

“I may be bruised,” I replied, “but I can still take you down,” I boasted, but knowing I was displaying more bravado than actual bravery.

“Relax,” he said consolingly. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Well, who the hell are you?” I demanded to know, “and what the fuck do you want from me?”

“We’ll get to that,” he replied, “but first let’s make sure you’re OK.” I flinched when he approached me, but he reassured me by backing off immediately.

“I just want to make sure I don’t need to take you to the hospital, Joe.”

“Wait! What the fuck? How do you know my name?”

“We know a lot about you, Joe, and—”

“We? Who the fuck is ‘we’?” I yelled, stiffening my spine again.

Seeing my anxiety, he backed off again, but then he pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed, sat down, and leaned in.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Joe. In fact, my boss sent me here to help you, and that’s what I’d like to do if you will let me.”

“Your boss? Who is that?”

“I will answer all of your questions, Joe, but let’s at least get you out of this flea bag and into someplace where we can talk, OK?”

Cautiously, I agreed.

Before we left the flea bag, though, he opened the wallets he had taken off the two ruffians, pulled out the bills, and handed them to me. There was almost a thousand dollars altogether. I counted out the $400 they had promised me and handed the rest back to the handsome Samaritan.

“Keep it,” he instructed. “Considering how they were treating you, you deserve it.”

I counted out another $200—“My tip,” I said—and handed the remainder back to him.

Accepting the balance of the money, he said, “We’ll give the wallets and the rest of the money to the hotel manager,” he said. “To cover the repairs on the door,” he chuckled. I have to admit, he had a very pleasant laugh and a killer smile that would disarm an entire battalion of even the most hardened infantrymen.

Considering that he was driving a $90,000 luxury SUV, I guess I should not have been surprised when he drove us to the St. Regis Hotel, the most luxurious—and most expensive—hotel in Atlanta.

“But my car,” I pleaded. “I need to get my car.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he reassured me. “It’s been taken to a safe place, and all of your belongings are safe as well.”

I was beginning to feel like I was in some kind of sci-fi movie, but so far, everything seemed OK, so I resolved to see where it would go. I didn’t let my guard down, though. I may have been needy, but I’m not stupid.

“You hungry?” he asked as we entered the luxury suite with a balcony overlooking the pool. “Of course you are,” he added when I didn’t reply immediately. “Stupid question. You probably haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.” He was right, of course, but how did he know that?

“There’s a steam shower and a Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom,” he said, pointing the way, “and a comfortable robe hanging behind the door. Why don’t you freshen up while I call room service for some food. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

Seeing the scowl on my face, he remarked, “I didn’t think so. Two steaks coming up. Medium? Medium rare?”

“Medium well,” I replied.

“Southerners!” he frowned. “OK, medium well it is.”

A shower, a robe, and, I noticed immediately, only one bed in the room, king-sized. You talk a good game, mister, but you’re obviously after the same thing that everyone else is after. You just wanna bone me. Well, OK. You’re pretty damn hot and you did rescue me from those two bastards, so I guess I owe you.

After a long shower and an even longer soak in the Jacuzzi tub, I came out of the bathroom just as I heard a knock on the door. “Room service,” I heard a young man’s voice say. I wrapped myself in the plush terry cloth robe and walked out into the bedroom only to discover an adjoining room with a luxurious wrap-around sofa and a small table with four chairs where the cute bellboy was setting up our supper: 12-ounce T-bone steaks, baked potatoes with butter and sour cream, sautéed zucchini and squash, and amaretto cheesecake for dessert.

After showing the bellboy to the door and tipping him, my handsome host—I still didn’t know his name—offered, “Wine? It’s a very nice Cabernet Sauvignon. There are also sodas, bottled water, and spirits in the fridge,” he added.

To be perfectly honest, I had never had much wine and what I had experienced was mostly the cheap stuff. From what I had seen thus far, I knew this would not be cheap shit, so I gladly accepted the opportunity to sample the good stuff.

“A toast,” he said, “to more ups than downs.”

“I’ll definitely drink to that,” I almost gushed.

Supper was accompanied by small talk. Every time I tried to ask more pertinent questions, he managed very smoothly to steer the conversation back to mundane topics such as the weather, sports, or which movie star was rumored to be sleeping with whom.

With supper finished, he led me over to the plush sofa, where I figured he was planning to make his move on me, but I finally blurted out. “Enough! I really appreciate what you did for me back at that motel, and this evening has been delightful, but who the hell are you and what the fuck do you want from me?”

“Actually,” he grinned, “you contacted us.”

“What? What do you mean? And who is ‘us’?”

“Houseboy.com,” he said.

Ah, yes. My friend Andre, the guy who told me I could make money by offering myself on the streets, had also told me about this Website where employers look for domestic help—ostensibly. Many of them are actually just looking for boy toys they can fuck whenever they want, but at least the boys get free room and board in exchange for doing some housework. And since I was used to doing chores around the house, I figured I could do that, and what if it is just another form of prostitution. I’m already doing that, and I might luck out and get an employer who I actually wouldn’t mind sleeping with on a regular basis. The hot stud sitting across the table from me was just such a case, it seemed.

“Yeah, I’ve been to that Website,” I acknowledged, “but I don’t recall seeing your profile. If I had, I certainly would remember it.” Careful, Joe. Don’t appear too eager to let this guy get into your pants…or your robe. Slow and easy.

 “Oh, not me,” he laughed, flashing those beautiful pearly whites again. “Do you remember sending an inquiry to a man named Art?”

I had to rummage through my frazzled brain for a few seconds before I recalled, “Oh, yeah, the guy in New York who said he was looking to replace an assistant who is leaving.”

“That’s right. Raphael has finished his college degree and is moving on to pursue his career in hospitality management, so Art…Arthur Block…is looking for someone to assume his duties.”

“Who is this Arthur Block,” I asked and, raising my voice a bit more than I perhaps should have, “who the hell are you? Do you have a name, or should I just call you St. Regis?”

“That’s good,” he laughed. “I like you, Joe. You’ve got spunk. And I’m pretty sure Mr. Block is going to like you too.” After a slight pause, he continued, “Woody. My name is Morgan Woodward, but everyone calls me Woody.”

“Well, all right, Woody. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I couldn’t help wondering if his nickname was actually derived from his last name or if it was a not-so-subtle reference to another asset, one which I was about to observe up close and personal. “So, are you Mr. Block’s chief houseboy, or what?”

“Rule number one,” replied Woody. “Mr. Block does not like the term ‘houseboy.’ First of all, he hires men, not boys, and second, he doesn’t like the connotations often associated with that term.”

“Connotations?”

“I’ll let Mr. Block explain that when you meet him.”

“Meet him? Is he here?”

“No,” replied Woody. “Tomorrow you and I are flying out to California.”

(To be continued)