by Andy Zeffer
When I followed Tray out the door, the party had flowed outside, so there were people hanging out on the staircase and driveway. Most of them were smoking and carrying on. I paid no attention. My eyes were fixated on the muscular frame in front of me.
Tray opened the lock and I followed him inside. After flicking on the lights, I followed him around, glancing at the interior and trying to pretend that I gave two shits about the structural differences between the upstairs and the downstairs units. When we were finished I stood with my back to the front door.
“So how do you like the place?” he asked me slowly.
“Very much,” I answered quietly, wondering who would do what next.
My answer was questioned when Tray reached behind me and flicked the light switch off, leaving us standing face to face in the darkness. Our lips met a second later, tongues lapping together in each other’s mouths. All night I had been waiting to grab on to his strong frame, which felt like a rock-hard sculpture as I rubbed my hands up and down the muscles of his back, finally gripping his round, firm butt.
I could tell that once this guy decided to get it on, he did it with zeal. He picked me up and sat me on the kitchen table, gyrating wildly against me. Of course I’d been wondering how hung he was, and was delighted by his girth and length. My shirt and his tank top flew off. My hands went over his enormous pecs again and again.
I jumped down from the table so we could grab at each other’s pants, releasing our eager dicks, which sprung up to greet each other. The tip of his dick went back and forth against mine, stopping now and then to poke and lay against my stomach. We stood there for a while, continuing to make out furiously, groping and grabbing at each other, bodies pressed together tightly and rubbing away. I could hear laughter and commotion outside, and see figures walking past the windows through the blinds. But I didn’t think twice about it, as we had seen guests outside on our way down. Besides, the lights were out, and I didn’t think it was possible to see anything through the windows. In the heat of the moment, it was the last thing on my mind.
Tray pushed me toward the bedroom, flopping me down on the bed. We kicked off our shoes and released our legs from the grip of our pants, which had since fallen to our ankles. Without warning, he shifted around on top of me, shoving his huge and swollen cock down my throat, and taking my own dick inside his mouth. I gripped on to his beautiful hips, grabbing hold while he bobbed up and down on my face. We changed positions a few more times, and in the middle of what was so far the best sex I was having in a long time, I noticed voices and laughter near us growing louder and more excitable. Eventually Tray jumped up suddenly and stepped halfway off the bed, sealing the blinds quickly. He looked back at me with a childish but still sexy grin.
“What happened? Someone peering in?” I asked, breathing heavily. If there were people peeping in at us, I had no idea. I was focused on one thing only, the hot stud in front of me and his beautiful anatomy. The window could have been a mile away as far as I was concerned.
Things heated up to a point where we couldn’t hold it anymore. Actually, Tray came first. Usually I was the one that couldn’t hold off coming, but this time I would have loved to go at it even longer. He stood up from the bed, groaning out loud and trying to squeeze the slit of his dick shut and hold in his load until he had his other hand in position to catch all his wad, so it didn’t go flying all over the floor. I stood up and bit and sucked on his nipples. He started to yell as his orgasm began, and I kneeled down so I could witness him spurt his load up close, catching some on the side of my cheek. I followed suit right after him, less conscientious about messing up the floor.
We went into the bathroom and cleaned ourselves up, and wiped up the floor as well. My guess was we had been downstairs for about twenty minutes. All eyes were on us when we reentered the room, but I was so relaxed and happy I didn’t think about it twice. My mood hadn’t been this worry free in a long time. The music was still going loud, so I couldn’t hear if anybody made any comments. Candy was sitting on Ricky’s couch when I came back. She looked up at me with a big smile.
“Hey, Adam!” she said enthusiastically, just a hint of a teasing tone in her voice.
The heavyset friend of my latest fuck smirked knowingly as she greeted us. I guess the whole party suspected that he wasn’t showing me his stamp collection. While I was getting my rocks off Candy was growing bored. The party was dying down and it was time for us to leave. I left with the Tray’s phone number. I hoped we saw each other again. If nothing else, maybe I had finally found myself an occasional fuck buddy.
On the drive back home Candy told me that half the party had witnessed the muscular stud and I getting our groove on through the blinds.
“But the lights were off,” I said, honestly thinking it was impossible.
“Hello, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm!” Candy sang in my ear. “How brightly lit was that driveway? You don’t think that might make it possible to see inside?”
“So did you come down and take a peak at us getting busy?” I asked teasingly.
“Eww. That’s one thing I don’t need to see,” she said with a look of disgust on her face, then proceeded to grill me about the details.
So what if half the party knew I was screwing around? Thousands of other people could watch me have sex on their DVD players and VCRs. I didn’t give a shit. The past few weeks had been some of the worst in my life. I needed a good screw to lift my spirits and help me forget the heartbreak. That it was with one of the most magnificently built guys I had been with was just icing on the cake. I went to bed that night feeling a lot better.
My sexual satisfaction was to be short-lived. The next week was to bring on more grief and disillusionment to my life, though I wouldn’t have thought it possible.
Things started to slide further a few days later when I decided to keep in touch with Tray by what I thought was a sweet idea. During our conversation that night we discovered we were both old movie buffs, discussing our favorite old-time stars and films at length. I had a few books sitting around that I had already read. One was a biography of legendary World War II musical actress and pinup Betty Grable, while a few others were novelty books, with subjects such as Hollywood’s Biggest All Time Flops. I thought Tray would appreciate them.
I left them outside his door with a note. A few days later he still didn’t call. Finally I caved in and called Tray to see if he got them. He gushed over the phone about how surprised he was and how sweet it was of me, and that we would definitely have to hang out again. He told me he had meant to call me but was busy with his job waiting tables. Our conversation ended with him promising to call the next week.
“Okay, whenever you have time,” I said, knowing better than to sit by the phone.
That night Ricky met Candy and me at the Abbey. Ricky went on at length about what a scandal I caused at the party.
“I was glad I could be of entertainment. It seems my antics are meant to amuse the whole world,” I said sarcastically, referring to me being fodder for the tabloids.
I went on to tell Ricky I thought Tray was hot.
“Adam, he may be the body beautiful, but I wouldn’t give him any more thought,” Ricky said point-blank. “Tray likes to have his share of fun, which includes lots of circuit parties, running around, and many sexual partners. He’s not one to think of seeing a second time, you know what I mean?”
“Gotcha,” I said. In other words, if I were to look for someone to help me get over John, I should keep looking.
I put Tray out of my mind and sipped my martini. What did I care? It wasn’t as if I was some innocent victim of love. On the contrary, I went right after the guy like a lion on the hunt. I honestly hoped Tray enjoyed his books. I wanted a good piece of ass and some sexual pleasure to soften my misery, which I got from him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only thing I got from him.
Hitting the Breaking Point
Exactly a week after Ricky’s party I was in the kitchen putting away
some groceries. I had all but forgotten my escapade with muscleman Tray. After stacking yogurts in the fridge, I suddenly felt the need to urinate. I hadn’t peed that morning, which was highly unusual, but really didn’t give it much thought.
I went to the bathroom, my bladder full and ready to be relieved. As I stood over the toilet with my limp dick out ready to take a whiz, I immediately sensed something was wrong. When feeling this ready to pee I usually gushed like Niagara Falls. But for some reason I was having trouble releasing, even though I had the urgent need to go. It was like I was clogged up.
The next thing I knew I was gripped with a painful burning sensation bad enough to make me gasp and bend over in agony, and I had to keep myself from screaming out in pain. It felt like I was forcing myself to pass razor blades through my penis. I moaned as I continued to urinate, wanting to stop because of the scorching discomfort but at the same time desperate to empty myself.
When I was finished I stood there, gripping my crotch with both hands and my face wincing up. I was stunned, to put it mildly. I knew I was in trouble. My recent conquest had given me more than a good time to remember him by. Along with it Tray had passed on some kind of nasty VD, perhaps urethritis or gonorrhea. I stared at the numb expression that was my face in the bathroom mirror as I washed my hands, slowly soaping them up and rinsing them off in a daze. This was not what I needed in my life right now. I had no stable job, just been dumped, and was now reminded of the fact that I had no medical insurance and something was wrong with me. How much more shit could get thrown my way?
I drove to the nearest business I could think of that carried Frontiers or some other publication that would have info on where I could get myself checked out. I found a free clinic on North Schrader Boulevard in the heart of Hollywood, and dialed the number immediately. A girl answered the phone and I asked somewhat spastically if I could come in within the next few hours. I scratched the counter in frustration when she told me there were no openings left, but walk-in hours were every day from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.
“I’ll come in tomorrow,” I said in frustration, and threw the phone across the room. I was even more frustrated by the fact I had to pee again, and this time knew what was in store for me.
After another torturous session over the toilet, I flopped on my bed and flipped through the pages of the papers I had brought home, hoping to clear my thoughts and forget about my infected dick and dismal job prospects for a while. I skimmed over the frothy articles and stories, making my way to the back where the personal and adult ads are placed. I was just about to close the rag up and toss it aside when an image struck me as I flipped through the end of the weekly.
I greeted it with disbelief and dismay. Taking up about a quarter of a page was an advertisement for phone sex, with yours truly staring at the camera with a stupid forced grin and in the gayest pose possible. My torso was twisted in a way so that my shoulders faced the camera and my pecs popped out more than they normally would. The lower half of my body was in profile, and I was sticking my butt out as if I was getting ready to give a lap dance. I wore a phony sort of sultry expression in my face. My eyes squinted a little as if to look piercing and my lips pouty as to look bigger. The sex-line number was printed strategically at my groin, covering up my privates.
Great. Just wonderful. I had graduated from being in a few porn movies to being splashed across national supermarket rags to now being the model for sleazy sex services.
My mind couldn’t take any more. If I kept focusing on all the shit I was buried in up to my neck, I would explode. It was like a cruel joke: the more I tweaked out about all the crap I had to deal with, the more was thrown at me. In an attempt to zone out, I flipped on the TV and watched reruns of The Golden Girls until eventually falling asleep.
The next morning I ran out of the apartment without saying a word to Candy. I was one of the first people in the waiting room of the clinic. I sat on some sofas watching television chat shows when I was eventually called in by one of the nurses. She was a sensible, no-non-sense woman and asked me what my concern was. She could tell I was freaked out and upset, perhaps more so than most people who came in who were probably more embarrassed and uncomfortable than anything else. I imagine your average person just wanted to get whatever they had cleared up and than clear themselves out of the clinic.
Leave it to me to be much more demonstrative and emotional. I went into my whole sob story of meeting Tray for one night and my downfall. She sat and listened, probably having heard it all before.
“It’s not worth it,” she said in a straightforward tone. “Look at what happened. You have to suffer, then come down here and deal with all of this for five minutes of pleasure. You’re worth more than that. You give yourself time to get to know someone first,” she stated firmly.
It was strange to be hearing a voice of reason especially when everyone I surrounded myself with seemed borderline crazy. To be sitting across from a practical, unassuming individual for a change was almost a comfort, though obviously I would have preferred not having needed a trip to the VD clinic. Did things have to get this extreme to find a sensible person in LA?
Before she finished I sat there and listened in horror as she went on in detail about cases where people had picked things up from making contact with people’s throats. Having something passed on to you was demoralizing enough; I didn’t want to think about people walking around with an STD in their mouths. After leading me into a room and examining me, she said she did notice some discharge down there.
“Let me give you this,” she said, and handed me a pill along with a liquid antibiotic of some sort to chase it down with. “That should clear it up. We won’t know what it is for sure until your results come back in a week. I’ll schedule you for a follow-up around then.”
Instead of leaving, I stuck around to get an HIV test as well. I had always tried to be as safe as possible, but at this point I wasn’t sure of anything. I had been with so many people since arriving in LA I couldn’t keep track. I began manifesting the worst in my mind. What if I had caught AIDS? Then what would I do? Maybe I was being punished for all my evil deeds. My thoughts churned over and over with “what if.” I began sweating and shaking, twitching my right foot so uncontrollably that the other people in the lobby looked at me in irritation, the guy next to me getting up and moving to another seat.
I was broken from my trance when a cute Hispanic guy came down the hall and announced my number. I followed him down the hall into a small office and sat down. Unlike the nurse I had earlier, he was soft-spoken.
“Hello, I’m Eduardo, one of the counselors. How are you doing?” he asked.
Well gee, let me think, I wanted to say. My eyes are popping out of my head from anxiety, I’m trembling uncontrollably, and I’m chewing on my lip like it’s a stick of gum, what do you think?
Instead I settled on “Fine.”
We began with routine questions about my sexual history.
“How many partners have you had in the last year?” Eduardo asked at one point.
Oh shit. I couldn’t even recollect.
“Umm, let me think,” I stammered.
I sat there for a few minutes. There was Dale, John, Wayne Hanley, Tray, other clients, and numerous porn stars from the handful of films I made for HUNG. Finally, Eduardo asked, “Can you give me an approximate number?”
“Twenty-five,” I said.
The questions got more excruciating, such as how many times was anal sex involved, did I receive or give, and so forth. I knew the whole process. I had been tested numerous times before. But it was agonizing to try to remember the details of individual sex acts on the scene of each porno set, and every night as a male whore for hire. At one point in our conversation, the subject turned toward work.
“I’m currently unemployed,” I mumbled.
At that point I did something I had never done before. I looked at the poor guy, tears welled up in my eyes, and I started sobbing. I just completely broke down.
Everything came out at once. I was making a complete display of myself in front of a complete stranger, bawling my eyes out. Losing a guy I loved, being out of a job, picking up an STD, and seeing my image splashed on a tacky phone sex ad was more than I could take.
In a way it made sense I was having an emotional breakdown here and now. I was in an office, speaking with someone whose job it was to hear information that was completely confidential, almost like a therapist. And what I desperately needed right now, other than a decent job, was a therapist.
The poor guy looked at me with deer eyes and passed me a box of tissue. It was safe to assume such an unexpected outburst from a grown man was not something he was prepared for first thing in his day. Then again, I had to take into consideration the kind of work he did and where I was. From the outside I appeared like someone who should have his act together. Nothing could be further from the Truth.
“You know, the state of California has public assistance programs that you are probably eligible for,” Eduardo said meekly.
While he was trying to be helpful, that bit of information only had me sobbing harder. Holy shit. Now the subject had turned to welfare. I had dealt with a lot of issues and circumstances in my life, but never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I’d even be touching upon the subject of my going on welfare. What was even worse was that in the back of my mind I thought it might not be such a bad idea. If things kept on going as they were, I might soon find myself in line. Eduardo the HIV counselor was probably horrified at this point.
I finally got a grip on myself, and we solemnly proceeded with what was supposed to be a routine HIV test.
“Would you like the names of those services?” Eduardo asked as I got up to leave.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll be okay. I’m just going through a rough spell.”
I just wanted to go home.
On the brighter side, I had to pee before finally getting out of there. I found the bathroom in the hall and prepared myself for pain. The nurse must have given me something strong, because whatever it was had already kicked in. There was considerably less discomfort than last time. I hoped the rest of my life, especially my HIV test results, turned out as well as my urinary tract.