Sven smiles. Retrieves two magazines from one of his desk drawers. One is Hustler, a magazine Jimmy knows well enough. The other features bare-chested men in tight jeans on its cover. Jimmy looks curiously at the magazine with the men. He’s never seen a gay pornographic magazine.
He is curious about the gay magazine, but Jimmy doesn’t feel bold enough to ask for it. Realizing that he is lingering, Jimmy says: “Hustler.”
Sven seems unsatisfied with this answer. He flips opens the gay magazine. Offers Jimmy a peek inside. Jimmy glances at a picture of a man with a mustache, his lips stretched around a thick cock. Jimmy snorts. Men having sex with other men looks too unnatural to him. He can’t look at it. Can’t read that book. As much as he wants to feel his own cock in Sven’s mouth, he’s not sure he wants to see it.
“Hustler,” Jimmy says, unable to keep mild irritation from his voice, a knee-jerk reaction.
Sven chuckles, gives Jimmy the magazine he requested. Jimmy dutifully flips through its pages. He has a hard time focusing on the pictures. Doesn’t know exactly what he should do next. He’s only ever done this once before.
Sven kneels in front of Jimmy.
Jimmy can feel his cock stir. His mouth is a desert. Sven coos softly. Puts one hand on Jimmy’s hip, uses the other to rub the front of Jimmy’s pants. Jimmy concentrates on the pictures, feels his breathing go shallow. His cock rise. When Sven unbuttons Jimmy’s pants and lowers his fly, Jimmy wordlessly sets the magazine aside. He puts his hands on the bed and raises his hips. It’s a small thing, but he realizes that by raising his hips, he is an active participant in the act. He feels a flutter of excitement in his chest. As his pants go down, the cool air in the room makes gooseflesh on his thighs. He feels the texture of the bedspread on his bare ass. His cock proudly stands, the one part of his body with absolutely no shame. It’s a swaying pole in a small unkempt bush of curly brown hair. Jimmy opens his knees and inches his hips forward. His pants are at his ankles. He sees something wet welling up on the head of his dick.
Sven gently wraps his hand around Jimmy’s cock. Jimmy exhales noiselessly. As the wind leaves his body, Jimmy glances up and sees Roger standing at the bedroom door.
Jimmy is horrified. He gasps, his body tightens.
Sven spins his head to the door.
“Roger—” he says. He can’t hide his irritation.
He crosses the room quickly. Standing at the door, Sven puts his body between Roger and the bed. Jimmy reaches for his pants, grateful that Sven is blocking Roger’s view. He wonders if Roger will tease him, expose him to the other boys. Leaning over, Jimmy half-heartedly pulls his pants up to his knees. His cock is still hard, swaying wildly. It bobs against his abdomen, knocks into his forearm, leaving a little wet spot.
The conversation at the door is muted, but Sven seems to be moving it quickly toward closure.
Jimmy decides getting dressed makes little sense. He sits, his cock swaying in front of him. He is unsure what to do with his hands. He feels foolish. Placing his hands in his lap, he folds them, then moves them to his knees.
Sven comes back. He’s apologizing. Kneeling.
Roger is gone from the door.
Sven is cooing again, offering comfort, taking Jimmy’s cock in his hand. Not really listening, Jimmy opens his knees and watches Sven take him into his mouth. Jimmy sighs. Tries to relax. He closes his eyes and allows himself to get lost in the moment. Soon his excitement returns, his cock grows. He starts to rock his hips. As Jimmy allows the first soft groan to escape his lips, he opens his eyes.
Roger is at the door again.
Roger immediately puts his finger to his mouth, makes the shhhh face.
Roger grins.
Jimmy casts his eyes toward Sven. His eyes are closed, his head bobbing.
He is making sloppy, sucking noises with his mouth. Jimmy feels the muscles in his abdomen go tight of their own accord.
Cutting his eyes back toward the door, Jimmy sees Roger place his hand close to his crotch. His grin is gone now, replaced by a solemn look of watchfulness. Sven takes his warm mouth from around Jimmy’s cock and presses the wet shaft against the boy’s abdomen. Tucking his head between Jimmy’s legs, Sven uses the flat part of his tongue to lick the crack of Jimmy’s ass. His tongue dances from Jimmy’s asshole all the way to his soft down-covered balls.
Jimmy exhales loudly, his nostrils flaring.
That feels so. Fucking. Good.
Aware that he’s quickly moving beyond the place where is capable of controlling himself, his facial expressions, Jimmy looks to the door. He’s like a drowning man, except that maybe he wants to go under. Reading the fear in Jimmy’s face, Roger grins encouragement. Raises his chin. But then Jimmy watches as Roger’s grin quickly fades. He lowers his head, bites his lower lip. He presses his lean body into the doorjamb, and goes back to silently watching.
Jimmy decides to let Roger watch.
Sven takes Jimmy’s cock back in his mouth and Jimmy groans out loud. Nothing to hide now. Glancing toward the door, Jimmy sees Roger peering down the hallway, like a lookout. Propping himself on his elbows, Jimmy watches the length of his cock disappear into Sven’s mouth, then appear again, wet and glistening. On the downstroke, Sven’s nose nestles into Jimmy’s pubic bush. Jimmy feels the head of his cock bump up against the back of Sven’s throat. Jimmy opens his knees and thrusts his hips forward.
He’s fucking Sven in the mouth.
Jimmy’s fear of exposure disappears, suddenly replaced with something quite like joy. Roger’s rapt attention and Sven’s warm mouth spur Jimmy on. He tugs his T-shirt high on his chest, rubbing his hand across his nipples. Looking into the mirror, Jimmy sees his own face contorted with lust, his own muscled, teenage body writhing with need. Jimmy delights in the sensations, the show he is creating for Roger and himself. He thrusts his groin up, watching the muscles in his abdomen work as he moves his hips.
Jimmy feels a finger on the crack of his ass.
He squirms, a stab of panic pulsing through him. His ass is sweaty, vulnerable. Jimmy’s not sure if he wants to be fingered. His biggest fear is that he will somehow find himself overcome with lust. In a weakened state, he will end up taking a cock in his mouth or a dick up his ass. He knows he has to be vigilant. Diligent. And then before he can protest, Sven’s finger is inside his ass.
The digit slips in easy, as if Jimmy’s ass were meant to hold a man’s finger—
Or maybe something more!
Jimmy clenches his cheeks. Bears down hard. Pressing his shoulders into the mattress, Jimmy raises his ass. Sven rises to his feet, his mouth locked on Jimmy’s cock. Sliding his finger past the second knuckle, Sven gives the boy what he seems to need so badly. Now there is a little pain, just as there probably should be. Things are changing for Jimmy, turning all around inside. He moans as his cherry ass is finger-fucked.
With his hips high off the bed, Jimmy empties himself into Sven’s mouth.
Sven swallows all the cream Jimmy has to offer. As his cock drains, Jimmy melts into a puddle on the bed. No longer driven by his own desires, he breathlessly relaxes, his soft cock still in Sven’s mouth, a finger still buried in his ass.
Jimmy twists his trunk, but it’s more like a stretch than any real attempt at resistance.
As Sven slowly removes his finger, Jimmy groans at the emptiness, which is almost as painful as the finger’s deep plunge. He feels obligated to object to the reaming he just received, a token gesture to defend his masculinity. But he knows now it would only be an empty gesture: his tight little ass has already fallen.
He’s been fucked!
Gloriously, sweetly, popped.
Fingered into a whole new place, a different state of mind.
Uncorked.
Jimmy savors the mild pain. His balls ache, his ass stings. He feels spent. Utterly, deliciously, empty. Helpless.
Sven kneels beside the bed and closes his eyes. Jimmy’s not sure what is happening now. Sven has a serious exp
ression on his face. Is he praying? Jimmy cranes his neck, looks off to the side of the bed. He sees Sven stroking his cock into a towel, relieving himself.
Jimmy grins. Tilting his head, he carefully watches Sven’s face. Waiting for the moment, the climax. Sven comes quietly, almost reverently, without much of a sound.
Jimmy remembers the door. He looks for Roger and finds him gone.
As Sven cleans himself up, Jimmy wonders if Roger saw him get fingered. A deliciously dirty feeling sweeps over him. He wonders if Roger heard him moan and writhe as he filled Sven’s mouth with his cum. Wonders if Roger managed to bring himself off.
Wonders if Roger filled his pants with sticky, warm cum.
Good-byes are quick and utilitarian.
One of the men is already gone. Another is watching TV. Sven and Roger have a brief conversation in the kitchen. Jimmy practically floats from room to room. Sven presses a business card into his palm, and whispers, “Call me,” in that odd clipped accent. And then Jimmy is in the small VW, and he and Roger are being driven back to the mall.
In the mall parking lot, Roger spots his cousin—a girl from Carnal’s senior class, driving her mother’s car—and he flags her down. She offers to drive Roger and Jimmy back to Carnal.
On the ride home, Jimmy beams. He turns to say something. Roger makes the shhhh face, cutting his eyes to the front seat.
Roger raises his hips from the seat, reaches into his front pocket, and withdraws a fold of cash. He grins and shuffles through the bills. About fifty or sixty dollars.
Jimmy stops smiling. Roger had no money earlier at the mall.
“Where did you get money?” Jimmy whispers
Roger shushes him. Grins. Nods to the front seat.
Jimmy frowns. He feels certain the money came from Sven. He extends his hand, flexes his fingers. If the money came from Sven, the money is his. Roger chuckles, peels off a twenty and a ten, and gives them to Jimmy.
Jimmy takes the bills, stuffs them in his pants. Now he knows the money came from Sven. He puts his hand back out and flexes his fingers again.
Roger leans toward Jimmy. “I already had some of this,” Roger says.
Jimmy knows this is a lie. He knows you have to watch Roger.
He keeps his hand extended.
Roger peels off a few more bills—a five and some ones—and hands them over. Jimmy watches his friend put the remainder of the money into his pocket. Roger has profited from the sex Jimmy had this afternoon.
Jimmy looks at his friend, his crown of soft brown curls.
Jimmy decides to let it go. Instead of asking about money, he wants to ask Roger how much he saw. Did he watch Jimmy squirm with a finger up his ass? Did Roger come in his pants out in the hallway? Did he like what he saw?
It occurs to Jimmy that this probably isn’t the first time Roger has earned money on the back of Jimmy’s dick. It’s a sobering thought. As soon as Jimmy thinks it, he knows it’s true. He can feel the enormous certainty of it.
As the car rounds a corner, glare from the setting sun blinds Jimmy. Looking at Roger, Jimmy sees a halo of sunshine glowing iridescent over his head. The car speeds up, continuing in a new direction, putting the sun behind some trees. Roger’s halo disappears, but he’s still an attractive boy. Wild and dangerous.
Roger grins at Jimmy.
Jimmy grins back. He knows he was tricked, but he isn’t angry. More than anything, he is amazed. You can get paid good money for getting head, he thinks.
Getting sucked off!
The world is a wonder of shifting truths and half secrets.
Anything is possible.
Street Meat
R. W. Clinger
1. On His Knees
I had Aaron “Trax” Traxford exactly where I wanted him: on his knees and with his mouth open, ready to pay off his debt. The motherfucker owed me three grand or a comparable amount of meth, whichever he wanted to land me first. He couldn’t pay me with either drugs or money, though, so I figured out the street math and came up with a nonnegotiable deal. If he sucked my cock thirty times and made me shoot my creamy white wad against his pretty-boy city face, I would let him live. If he didn’t, I was going to blow lead into his skull and visit him at St. Bart’s Cemetery on Hale Street next to the grave of his older brother, Bonk. My rules. His choice. That was how I rolled.
“Do I really have to do this again?” He looked up at me with his caramel-brown eyes that reminded me of his puppy named Yap. The tip of my nine-inch cock was almost touching his bottom lip, ready to slip inside and down his tight throat for a smooth fag-ride.
“You have any money for me?” I inquired, knowing he didn’t.
He shook his head, accidentally bumping his right cheek off the tip of my purple-veined dog. The twenty-year-old looked from his left to right to see if we were alone, which we were. He scaned Crane Alley and its Dumpsters, multitudes of litter, the stench of spoiled meat, and a stray dog that looked emaciated and hungry. Granted, it wasn’t the best place to receive a blow job, but sometimes a payment needed to be on the spot, without concern for its whereabouts.
“Do you have the drugs I gave you to sell?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Then eat up, pal. Don’t hold back. I want to cream your insides with my churn.”
“But, Marco,” he begged with tears at the corners of his eyes.
I gave his left cheek a hard slap, listened to him choke on his own saliva and instructed in a harsh manner, “Pay up and eat my cock, Trax. Be a man about this.”
So the straight little fucker grabbed my junk with his right hand, wrapped his fist around the nine inches of throbbing tool, and started sucking on my cock’s cut head, paying off a hundred dollars of the debt he owed me.
As I swung my hips, balls and weight against his pretty-boy face, I half believed he had sucked off a dude before, because he seemed to know what he was doing. Trax’s head shifted to and fro, and his tongue and suction did some magic on my dick. He didn’t gag on my cock like my ex-boyfriend, Stick, and seemed to enjoy himself while he gazed up my chiseled plane of Latino chest and studied my pumped pecs, firm nipples and broad shoulders.
“Suck it, street meat,” I said, thrust my hips against his face in a speedy manner, and felt elation curl within my standing frame, enjoying the guy’s oral payment.
As I banged his throat, building up a conventional orgasm, I thought of the bad little fucker’s past: a few years back he had offed Jompra, one of my compadres, with three shots. Trax liked the sexual company of redheaded women with large breasts; he was pretty fast behind the wheel of any car, especially when he decided to steal it. He knew his shit in the city, was born and raised to raise hell as an independent contractor, but was a terrible meth seller and user. How many times did I tell him not to mix his partying with the rocks he sold? Would he ever comprehend the strategy to separate the two?
“Eat it,” I whispered, brushing a palm through his thick brown curls, and banged his face again, causing him to choke. “Take it all, Trax.”
He gurgled, grunted and bobbed his head in an emphatic east and west motion. My balls slapped against his wrist as we rocked back and forth. Then I chanted, “Getting ready, guy. Gag on my sticky shit. Take it all.”
What transpired within the next few seconds was like a scene in an action-packed movie. Just as I was about to blow my load inside his hole, pig lights lit up the alley and a siren echoed between the string of buildings. Brights from the cruiser spotlighted Trax’s face on my knob and—
I pushed Trax off my dick and saw him tumble backward in the alley. Then I pulled up my jeans, quickly fastened them and bolted down the alley, attempting to escape the blues because I was wanted for a string of conventional crimes: robbery, trespassing, drug and gun possession, among a list of other naughties that comprised my bad-boy doings.
As I climbed a fire escape at the rear of Pony’s Bar & Grill and headed up to the rooftop for my planned escape from the 905s, Trax was being a
rrested, also wanted by the cops for a number of crimes committed in his youthful past. I listened to a brawl in the alley beneath me and to my left, heard one of the blues call Trax a motherfucking queer, and listened to Trax take a few fist-punches to his skull, jabs to his stomach and a kick to his nuts, which he probably deserved because he was more of a bad boy than me.
2. Damascus in the Shack
No, I didn’t finish myself off on the rooftop, blowing my creamy load over its rubber surface, although the night was perfectly romantic for a solo beef-tug. Instead, I bolted away from Trax and Crane Alley, jumped from rooftop to rooftop like a fucking tomcat, and ended up back at the Shack, a home base for my drug posse.
The Shack was beneath 6th Street in a rough part of the city, north of the Hudson. The sublevel complex sat under an abandoned warehouse where thread spools were once made in the late sixties. Rats inhabited the area, trespassers were shot without questions being asked and drugs of many different colors, side effects, shapes and sizes were stored in the place, which all could be purchased at very reasonable prices by dealers on New York’s streets. Most of the drugs were in a back room the size of a grade school cafeteria. The other rooms in the place consisted of two bedrooms, a kitchenette, a bathroom and a minimally furnished dining area where deals went down.
Pablo was my cousin and looked exactly like me. Our mothers were twin sisters who roomed together in nearby New Jersey. He was the head of Posse, the most powerful, the angriest, and had the most experience regarding street life and selling drugs. Frankly, he had the reputation of breathing fire, would kill anyone who disrespected him and knew how to operate our wholesaling business.
Pablo, Spine and Lark—all high members of Posse—were all in the Shack upon my return from the brisk and eventful affair with Trax on Crane Alley. The three of them stood over the battered dining room table and looked at a twenty-seven-year-old male named Damascus, who was one of the Matelli’s sidearms and sons.
The Matellis were a rough group of Italian drug dealers and our strongest competitor. Although we had an agreement (or oath) not to kill each other, it was quite common to abduct one of their male affiliates, bring them to the Shack, strip them out of their clothes, and sexually humiliate the men, if possible. This is why Damascus was buck-ass naked and tied to the Shack’s dining room table.
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