by Jeff Mann
In one picture, Mike stood facing the camera, shirtless, wearing a backward baseball cap and faded jeans full of rips and tears, flexing his brawny arms. His hair was shaggy and dirty blond, his face stubble-coated, his muscled chest and sculpted belly plastered with honey-colored hair. In a second shirtless image, he gave the photographer a side shot, flexing again—big swell of biceps—with a red dew-rag on his head and his jeans pushed down over his thighs, showing off a lean waist, curvy butt, and tan line. In a third, he stood with his tanned arms crossed, looking stern, tank top pulled up to expose the contours of a six-pack, the dark line of a thick treasure-trail, and a chunky Confederate-flag belt-buckle. When Brice switched to the guy’s stats, he found more promising details: “Mild to wild, seven inches uncut, versatile, S&M, spankings, blow jobs, role playing, toys.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Brice sighed as he scanned the pictures again. He regretted what the years had done to him; staring at young men, even knowing he could have one, was a mixed blessing, a hot stew of emotions, chiefly regret and desire. “That’s the one. Gotta love the rough redneck look.” He grabbed his phone and punched in Mike’s number, sat back, sipped his drink, and waited for the guy to pick up.
THE ESCORT APPRAISED THE SPACIOUS condo and the huge ocean view out sliding glass doors. His clothes matched the photos: backward baseball cap, tattered jeans, tight gray, ribbed tank top, and scuffed cowboy boots. “Fucking awesome place. You gotta be loaded.”
Brice didn’t like talking about money. “I do all right.” Brice appraised the young man, gazing at the amber field of chest hair that Mike’s low-cut top displayed. Amber waves of grain, Brice thought. “You want a drink? Whiskey sour?”
Mike nodded. “Sounds fancy.” And then he crossed his arms. “Could I have my fee first?”
Brice kept hidden how the question made him bristle—after fifteen years of hiring rent boys, he anticipated the request yet always found it distasteful. Makes me feel like I’m ordering fast food instead of a good meal; you pay for a real steak only after you eat it, but the sloppy burger is what’s on the menu.
“Here you go.” Brice handed Mike a wad of bills before heading to the bar to mix the man a drink and refresh his own.
As Mike counted, Brice said, “The extra five hundred is an apology…in advance. I’m in the mood to get a little wild tonight. So I might be rough.”
“I ain’t worried about that,” Mike said as he slid the bills into his tight back pocket, where the denim kissed his fine ass. “For this much, I’m up for just about anything.”
The two men sat at opposite ends of the couch. Brice’s gaze was direct, Mike’s shy. He kept grinning at Brice and looking away.
“So what’s your name again?” Mike asked.
“Nick. Is yours really Mike?”
“Naw.”
Brice chuckled. “Mine’s not really Nick.”
“I figured. That’s cool. You play those?” Mike asked, nodding toward the Yamaha baby grand and Martin guitar at the far end of the room.
“I do.” As much as Brice wanted to boast about his career, the thought of an ambitious hustler blackmailing him to keep quiet had no appeal, so he shrugged. “I’ve written a few songs.”
“Let’s hear one,” said Mike.
“In a bit.” Brice took a long sip of his drink. Between the pills and alcohol, his back was feeling almost back to normal. “First, why don’t you take your shirt off? I wanna see those amazing tits of yours.”
Mike blushed. “S-sure, man. Now that you’ve paid, I’m all yours.”
“You bet your sweet ass you are.” Brice leered as the hustler stripped to the waist. The big pecs, the cut abdominals, all that honey-hued fur…the deep voice and scruffy masculinity...the guy was glorious. Even the Confederate-flag belt buckle turned Brice on. It reminded him of the backwoods South he’d grown up in. A flag he felt in his heart wasn’t about racism but regional pride; country music was a big working-class “Fuck you” to the snotty, over-refined Powers That Be, and country music was Southern and shouldn’t be afraid to fly the Stars and Bars.
Brice resisted the urge to lick his lips like a starveling dog. How long had it been since he’d had a man so desirable? Probably that hugely hung porn star/escort Doug. Brice had spent several days in a fancy hotel room in Philadelphia last summer riding the buff brat raw.
“You haven’t done this much before, have you? Hustling?”
“Not much. How can you tell?”
“I’ve hired a lot of guys before.”
“Hey, I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but you’re pretty handsome. Why hire guys when they’d line up to spend the night with you for free?”
Brice took off his ball cap and ran his hand over his receding hairline. “Dating’s not my bag.”
“Yeah.” Mike frowned. “I get that. I have to stay in the closet ‘cause of work.”
“Where you work? Where you live?”
Mike stiffened. Nodding, Brice apologized.
“Sorry. Some guys aren’t shy about their lives. And others want to stay quiet until the fun begins.”
“I don’t mind you asking. Just…you aren’t what I expected. Most men that hire….” His voice trembled and he shook his head. “Not that I have any reason to be proud of where I live or work. It’s a trailer court out toward DeLand. And I’m a slave to that Walmart near Orange City.”
“You got no reason to feel ashamed. Not when I’m going to make you feel good.” Brice leaned in close and took a firm hold of Mike’s forearm, raising his arm high so he could breath in the man’s pit-sweat. “Thanks for skipping the shower and the deodorant like I asked. You married?”
Mike blushed again. He brushed blond hair off his brow, then folded his arms behind his head, giving Brice a stronger whiff and a clearer view of his golden-fleeced pits. “Divorced. Child support, that’s why I…do this.”
Brice moved closer. He ran his hands over the man’s chest and pinched a big brown nipple. Mike shuddered, smiled, and sighed.
“That feels great.”
“Good to hear. You like big bearded men like me?”
“I do. A lot.” Mike stretched out his legs, cocked a wooly eyebrow, and took a big gulp of his drink.
“You straight?” Brice said, bending to kiss Mike’s right nipple. The bulge in Mike’s jeans had grown considerably in the last couple of minutes.
“Ah, bi, I guess.”
Brice moved closer still. He put his drink on the coffee table and wrapped his left arm around Mike’s freckled shoulders. Cupping a thick pec in his right hand, he bent to kiss him. Mike grinned, rubbed his stubble against Brice’s beard, pulled off his baseball cap, and opened his mouth, receiving Brice’s tongue. The boy tasted of chaw tobacco and bourbon. Wonderful, Brice thought, lapping Mike’s teeth, then pushing his tongue in deeper. Mike groaned and slipped his arms around Brice’s back.
For a good ten minutes, the two men necked and kissed and drank and kneaded one another’s stiff crotches. Brice refreshed their drinks and pulled off his own shirt, and then they kissed and caressed a little more. Brice flicked, tugged, and twisted Mike’s nipples. Mike nodded, winced, and whimpered, kissing Brice even more hungrily.
“So you’re liking this, right?” Brice whispered against Mike’s stubbled cheek. “You’re not just putting on a show ‘cause of the money?”
“Yeah, I’m liking it. Ain’t just the cash.” Mike grinned, squeezing Brice’s beefy, fur-coated pecs.
“So what do you like about me?” Brice said. “Gimme a little ego food for my money.”
Mike chuckled. “I like your dark hair, and your beard, and your pretty blue eyes, and…and your lips, and this big chest of yours, and…it feels like you got a real big cock.”
“Nice. You have an acting career in front of you, bud. Get naked now,” Brice ordered, pulling away. Another advantage to hiring a hustler: Mike knew he’d been paid a lot of money to obey, and obedience turned Brice on.
“You
bet,” Mike said, pulling off his cowboy boots, unbuckling his belt, and shucking off his jeans and a very skimpy pair of camo briefs. He stood before Brice, hands on his hips, his erect cock swaying before him. The tip of it was already dewy with arousal.
“Damn, you’re fine. The good Lord sure knew what He was doing when He made you,” Brice said, ignoring the second’s spasm of guilt that any reference to the divine caused to flare up in him. “You ready to give me what I want?””
“You just paid my rent for the next couple of months, so I’m up for anything, man. Whatever you’re into. Just tell me what to do.”
Brice smiled. He leaned back against the couch, unzipped his pants, and pulled his prick out. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Get over here and suck my cock.”
“You bet. I give great head, I promise.” Mike fell to his knees before Brice, grinned up at him and winked, then buried his face in the older man’s pubic hair. He breathed deep, licked his lips, and took Brice’s hard-on into his mouth.
BRICE SAT NAKED AT THE piano, picking out slow chords and humming the tune under his breath. D to E to F-sharp minor, one of the progressions in “What’s Always Missing,” a mournful ballad included on his last CD, Mountain Back Road, the one he’d had such high hopes for, the one that won no awards and sold only moderately. Sea breeze filled the room, as did the distant sound of surf. Candles, the only illumination now, flickered around the room. Despite his penchant for paying for sex escorts, Brice still liked to fuck in a romantic atmosphere.
“You like that?” he asked, gazing across the room at the naked hustler sprawled on his couch. “I wrote that.”
“Uuummmm huhh,” Mike grunted. After five whiskey sours, Mike was shit-faced, which was fine by Brice.
Brice played another couple of bars in the treble clef, regarded his delectable guest, and stroked his own hard-on. Usually Brice’s cock had problems working after so much booze, but not tonight, not with a man as delicious as Mike.
The hustler lay on the couch on his side, nodding along to the melody, his eyes glazed with drink.
Been too long. Been too long. Been too long, Brice thought, admiring Mike’s powerful build. God, I live for nights like this. I starve for ‘em. He’s just fucking beautiful.
“You look good enough to eat.” Brice let the final D chord fade. He stood, moving unsteadily toward the couch. He knelt beside Mike, stroked his shaggy hair, and fondled his half-hard cock. He bent, took the hustler’s cock into his mouth, and sucked him softly till Mike got stiff and began to squirm.
“Ohhh, damn, that feels good. Oh, damn,” Mike grunted, thrusting down Brice’s throat.
Brice pulled off, licking his lips. “I’m going to fuck you now, buddy,” Brice said, pinching Mike’s nipples. “You ready for that? You want my dick up inside you?”
“Ohhh, yeah,” Mike mumbled, his drunk, wide green eyes gazing up at Brice.
“Good boy. Here we go.” Brice helped Mike sit up and then pushed him down into a kneeling position on the floor. Brice bent him over the couch seat and pushed KY up the hustler’s compact butt. He finger-fucked him, gently at first, then more roughly.
“Open up now, pretty boy. Open up for me.”
“Umm, that’s good. Sure, man. Y’bet.” Mike grunted low and writhed back against Brice’s hand, clearly relishing the penetration.
“God, you’re tight. This is going to feel so fine,” Brice groaned, slipping on a condom and applying more lube. Without further foreplay, he pushed his cock up Mike’s ass. Mike bucked, grunting with discomfort at the sudden invasion. Brice chuckled, gripping the rent boy’s stubbly jaw.
“Does that hurt?” Brice asked, cock-probing Mike’s butt with slow, shallow thrusts.
Mike whimpered and nodded but spread his thighs even wider. “Yeah, a little. But please don’t stop.”
“That’s the right attitude.” Brice pulled out long enough to give Mike’s buttocks a few hard slaps and to add another dollop of lube to his hole. Then he wrapped an arm around Mike’s chest, gripped his cock, slammed into him again, and began plowing him hard and fast.
Mike moaned and sobbed and gasped. Brice took his time, making the pleasure last, slowing his rhythm, speeding up, slowing, speeding up, slowing, speeding up. By the time Brice came, bourbon-soused Mike had already climaxed in Brice’s hand and passed out.
Brice shucked off the semen-heavy condom and tossed it on the carpet. He tugged off the couch’s afghan, pushed Mike’s limp frame down onto the floor, stretched out beside him, and spread the blanket over them. Wrapping an arm around the unconscious boy, he snuggled close.
God, he’s hot, Brice thought, running his sticky fingers through Mike’s messy hair. God, he’s so hot. God, his tits tasted good. God, his asshole was so fucking tight. Rapture. Man. Rapture. He’s so warm. Why can’t I hold a boy this hot more often? Why can’t I have a guy like this in my life? Fuck. I’m tired of lonely and I’m tired of lies. I’m tired of having to pay for sex. I’m tired of living year after year with so little touch.
Listening to the waves and the wind, Brice pulled Mike closer and passed out.
MIKE ROUSED BRICE NEAR DAWN BY STROKING his nipples and cock. The two men kissed and cuddled. They both hit the bathroom to piss and to gulp aspirins and big glasses of water. Brice led Mike into the bedroom and shoved him backward onto the bed. Climbing onto him, Brice bit his pecs, sucking and chewing his nipples with such ferocity that Mike begged him to stop. Brice reluctantly rolled off, spooning the hustler from behind till both fell asleep.
Brice woke to the blaze of sunrise over the Atlantic. He rolled over, buried his face in Mike’s hair, and fingered the boy’s still-lubed hole. Mike grunted, nodded, and bucked back in welcome. Soon Brice was rubbing Mike’s prostate and lubing up both their cocks, ready to take Mike again. He’d managed to wedge his cockhead up inside Mike and the hairy hustler was groaning against the hand Brice had clamped over his mouth when ringing began in the living room. It was Brice’s cell phone.
“Screw it,” Brice growled. “They can leave a message.”
Mike nodded against Brice’s hand and cocked a furry leg, giving Brice a better angle. Brice’s prick slid home, and the two men began rocking together and groaning in unison.
“FUCK, MY HOLE’S SORE. THAT’S one fat dick you got there,” Mike said, rubbing his bare ass.
“Your hole’s a treasure, bud. A man-milker of the first order.” Brice, dressed in nylon gym shorts, poured them both big mugs of coffee.
Earlier, Brice and his rent boy had indulged in a long nap, one interrupted three times by the phone’s repetitive buzzing. Brice had roused, pissed again, popped a few more back pills, then hoisted Mike’s legs in the air and fucked him yet again, the pace of his cock-thrusts unhurried and leisurely.
Now it was nearly noon. Bright light flooded the kitchen; wind off the sea whistled around the windows. Brice was offering his buck-naked guest half and half for his coffee when Brice’s phone rang yet again. He cursed and snatched up the thing.
So many messages from Steve? What the hell? I’ll call him once this hot kid leaves. Irritably, Brice turned the phone off.
Mike leaned against the kitchen counter sipping coffee while Brice cooked up grits and relished the sight of his guest’s continuing nakedness.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you were gonna get rough,” Mike said, fondling his swollen nipples. “My tits are just as raw as my butthole. Bruised-up, even.”
“Sorry. It’s been a while since I got laid. You’re so sexy that I got carried away. Yep, you sure earned your fee. I wasn’t too rough, was I?”
“Naw. I’m tough. I can take it,” Mike said, scratching his balls. “Hey, you mind if I grab a shower? I got a late-afternoon shift at Walmart.”
“Sure. Go on. You want some sausage patties to go with these grits?”
“That sounds great,” Mike said, padding off toward the master bedroom. “Ain’t often a john cooks for me.”
Mike was stil
l showering and Brice was browning sausage when the doorbell buzzed. “What the hell?” Brice snarled. When he peered through the peephole, he saw his bass player Buddy waiting in the corridor.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Brice muttered. What the hell is he doing here?
He darted down the hall and into the master bathroom. “Hey! Hey, Mike,” he blurted, tearing the shower curtain aside. “You gotta hide.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“My bass—a buddy of mine is at the door. He has no idea I fuck guys. Come on.”
The buzzer sounded again. Brice tossed Mike a towel. “Hide in the…the bedroom closet.”
“Closet. Appropriate,” Mike sighed, toweling off and looking annoyed.
Brice pulled on a tank top before tearing back down the hall. He paused to compose himself, sharply aware of how fine a dissembler he’d become after decades in the closet. Then he cracked open the door.
“Hey, Buddy,” Brice said, mustering a yawn. “What’s up? I thought you were in Orlando.”
Buddy, a bald, athletic man a few inches taller than Brice, just stared at him, as if he’d never seen him before. “I was. I just drove over here. I really need to talk to you,” he said. This was not the usual laid-back Buddy, full of teasing wit. This man was tense in a way Brice had never seen him before.
“Sorry. Just got up. Hungover. Got a sore throat. You better not come in.”
“Steve sent me. Why aren’t you answering his calls? Something’s happened. Something big.” Buddy placed a hand against the door and nudged. “Brice, let me in. We have to talk.”
Brice cleared his throat. “Okay, look. I got…a woman with me, okay? I’ll call Steve in just a little bit.”
“A woman?” Buddy’s tone was sardonic. “Really? Guess this means you’re finally over Shelly, huh? Well, why don’t you introduce us?”
“Don’t think so. She’s shy. Look, man, how about we get together for dinner? Right now, I don’t think—”