Muscular Man for Rent

by Emeric Varady

  I sucked in a deep breath to make my pecs swell out even more prominently above my crossed arms. I was in no mood to act coy, or to drag things out more than was necessary. I wanted the guy to see that I was built, that I was hung, that I was hot—and above all, that I was available. I wanted him to get the hots for me so badly that he’d be ready to get down on his knees in the damp grass and suck me off right there in public. It couldn’t be long now, I told myself, before he’d make his move—if he intended to. If he wasn’t a hustler himself, or a prickteaser, or just cautious. For all I knew, maybe he was hoping that an even more exciting prospect might cross his path, if he wanted long enough.

  I had to admit that he looked as though he could pick and choose. He couldn’t be much older than I was, but he’d worked on making himself look more mature—and on looking good. He was tall, about six feet, and fair-skinned, with thick reddish-blond hair and a mustache that matched. He had the kind of body that comes from regular workouts, but not the hours at the gym that I put in. His shoulders and biceps and chest made the dress shirt he was wearing look a bit snug on him. He had now surrendered to the heat by taking off his suit jacket, and he had it slung over one of those solid, shirt-straining shoulders of his.

  He kept glancing toward me. Every time he did so, I made a point of meeting and holding his gaze. I was careful to keep my facial expression neutral, although I favored him with the faintest hint of a smile. And, every time, he seemed to get a flustered, and he’d look away. Gradually, though—no doubt as the result of the fact that I wasn’t doing anything to discourage him—his glances became less furtive, and he held my gaze longer before he looked away.

  I was getting impatient. I decided to up the ante. As I’ve said, the night air was cool. But there are times when a businessman had to do whatever it takes to bring in the customers.

  Slowly, making a little production number out of it, I pulled the bottom hem of my T-shirt out of the waistband of my jeans. I pulled the shirt up to my armpits, baring my stomach and chest. I worked the garment up over my head, and then I eased my arms out of it. I stood there nonchalantly stripped to the waist, with my arms held loosely at my sides and the T-shirt dangling from my hand.

  Yeah … fucking hell! There I was, bare-chested, my muscle and flesh exposed to the warm night air from my waist up, revealing my upper body’s hard musculature. Big round shoulders. Bulging biceps, and thickly muscled forearms. Wide lats. A freaking chiseled six-pack of sharply defined ab muscles. And the massive twin swell of my pectorals, each of which was crowned by a big, stiff, conical, and extremely suckable male nipple! Aw, shit, those manly tits of mine were just being for a hot wet mouth to be applied to them, suctioning away on their hardness!

  My exhibitionistic ploy seemed to have succeeded. The young guy in the suit was now staring at me quite openly, and this time, when I smiled at him, he didn’t look away. He wouldn’t have made a very good poker player. His face betrayed only too clearly that he liked what he saw.

  I could almost see and hear the gears rotating, and clicking into place, inside his head. Then he made up his mind. He walked toward me—decisively, not trying to make it look accidental. He came right up to me. Only then did he hesitate.

  “Excuse me—” he said, in a soft, faltering tone of voice.

  “Yes?” I treated him to my most ingratiating smile.

  This disarmed him a bit, as I’d intended. Looking and sounding a little more at his ease, he said, “I imagine you don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “I didn’t think so, not with your build. You must be quite an athlete. I know that smoking’s a bad habit—not at all healthy for me—I’ve been trying to quit, but for some reason I keep relapsing. So I don’t suppose you have a light?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think I do have a book of matches, here in one of my pockets.”

  “You see, I think I left my lighter at home, in the jacket of one of my other suits,” he said, as I searched the pockets of my jeans.

  Even though I’ve never smoked, I was always careful, whenever I went out cruising either for pleasure or business, to make sure that I had a book of matches, or a disposable lighter on me. After all, “Do you have a light?” is such a classic pickup line that it’s best to be prepared.

  I finally found, and pulled out, the matchbook. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  He had taken a pack of cigarettes out of one of his jacket pockets. With a deft, practiced gesture, he tapped it, extracted one cigarette, and stuck it between his lips. He took the matchbook from me, struck a match, and lit up. Puffing away with obvious relish, he inspected the matchbook before he handed it back to me. It was a matchbook I’d picked up at a local gar bar—a fact which wasn’t lost on my admirer.

  “This place,” he said, looking at the name and logo on the matchbook cover. “Isn’t it a gay bar?”

  “Yeah, it sure is.”

  “Do you go there often?”

  “Quite a lot. To hook up with my friends … and to meet new friends.”

  “You’re so attractive,” he blurted out, “that I can’t believe you have any trouble making friends.”

  “Thanks. I always have room for new ones, though.”

  Blowing a smoke ring, he changed the subject. “It’s a hot night, isn’t it?”

  “Very. It’s steamy.”

  “Are you waiting for a train?”

  “No. I’m just hanging out here. I’m bored. And you?”

  “I’m on my way home from work.”

  “Oh? Are you catching a train?”

  “No.” He seemed a bit flustered. “I drove here from my office. My car’s parked over there, in the lot. I—ah—stopped in here to buy cigarettes.”

  “I see. Shame on you,” I teased him. “Supporting that bad habit of yours, I mean.”

  Cigarettes, my ass! He’d come to the train station to support another bad habit of his. Namely, picking up guys for sex!

  By now, I was confident that he wasn’t a vice cop, working undercover to entrap us male prostitutes. For one thing, he was too well dressed. A cop would have dressed down a bit, to look plausible as the kind of john who could afford only the cheaper street whores. Furthermore, this guy wasn’t a good enough actor. A cop would have rehearsed his routine much better, and not stumbled over his lines. Finally, I doubted that a police officer working vice would stare at my half-naked body quite so openly and lustfully—even though it could be argued that this was “in character” as part of his roleplaying as a john.

  He kept looking at me as he smoked, and he made no effort to conceal his interest.

  “Aren’t you afraid the mosquitos will eat you alive, with your shirt off like that?” he asked.

  “I’m too tough for the mosquitos to feed on,” I boasted.

  “Yes, you’re all muscle, aren’t you? I mean—you don’t seem to have any body fat on you at all,” he observed. “Your skin is stretched so tight over your muscles—I bet, if an insect did try to bite you, it wouldn’t be able to make a dent.”

  “Insects aren’t the only ones who’ve been known to try to take a bite out of me,” I said, suggestively.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. But you don’t see any teeth marks on me, do you?” I asked.

  He looked me up and down. “I can’t see all of you,” he pointed out. “Just from the waist up. I don’t have any way of knowing what you might have hidden away there, under your pants.”

  I had to give him credit. He was bolder than I’d thought.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out for sure,” I said. “But I don’t drop my pants for just anybody.”

  “What would it take to make you drop them for me?”

  “Right here?” I teased him.

  “No, at my place.”

  “If I had a big enough wad of cash in my pocket … I’m sure these jeans of mine would succumb to gravity, and fall right down around my ankles.”
r />   He was smiling at me, but in a slightly nervous way, as though he thought I might be joking.

  “A nice-looking guy like you,” he said. “I can’t believe that you really—” He hesitated. “Would do that.”

  “Do what? Sell myself for money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I do. I’m a hímringyó [male whore]. And I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “How much do you usually charge?”

  I was a whore. A man whore. I admit it. I’d do anything for money. But, as much of a male muscle prostitute though I was, I had some pride. I wouldn’t sell myself too cheaply.

  I’d already completed my assessment of him. I’d taken note of his suit, his dress shirt, his tie, his shoes, and his wristwatch. His hair was professionally styled, his fingernails manicured. He could easily afford the high-priced spread, so to speak.

  “Twenty-five thousand forints,” I proposed. [Translator’s note: approximately 112 U.S. dollars.]

  “You’re expensive.” But, even as he made this comment, he didn’t look or sound deterred.

  “I’m worth it,” I assured him, with cool self-confidence. The truth was, I was perfectly willing to negotiate my fee downward. But somehow, with this guy, I suspected that haggling wouldn’t be necessary. He wanted me. He was willing to pay for me!

  But the dude was a cautious consumer, damn him!

  “What, exactly, would I get for my twenty-five thousand?” he asked me.

  “I’m not trade. I’m not ‘gay for pay.’ I’m gay, and I like sex. I enjoy my work. I believe in taking care of the customer, and giving him what he wants—making him feel good. And I don’t like to rush. Twenty-five thousand will buy you a two-hour session, but I don’t watch the clock. If we happen to run a little over, that’s okay, and I won’t charge you any extra for it.” I smiled at him. “Of course, when a customer is especially satisfied—and I make it my business to make sure that most of them are—a tip is always appreciated.”

  “All right. Did you drive here?”

  “No. I took the bus to get here.”

  “My car’s in the parking lot, over there. Do you want to go to my place?”

  “Yeah.” I pulled my shirt back on, covering up the merchandise for the moment, and I picked up my gym bag. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Two: A Private Posing Session

  I tossed my gym bag onto the back seat of his car. He started the motor, and pulled out of the train station’s parking lot.

  “What’s in the bag?” he asked.

  “Just my gym gear.” A thought occurred to me. “It’s probably all damp and sweaty.” I gave the air inside the car a tentative sniff. I couldn’t detect anything; but maybe his nose was more sensitive than mine. “If it smells bad—”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. I was just curious.”

  “I came here right from my workout. You see, I hadn’t planned on—” I was about to say, on turning a trick; but I caught myself in time, and I said, more diplomatically, “—On checking out the action at the station. It was a spur of the moment thing. You know?”

  “Oh, yes, I know,” he said, with a hint of self-deprecating chuckle in his voice. “I know exactly what you mean!”

  I’d ridden in the passenger seat of vehicles beside johns who groped me with one hand while they drove with the other. This guy at least kept both hands on the steering wheel.

  He lived in an upscale apartment building, and the apartment itself, on the eighth floor, was spacious. Large windows looked out over the city. Unlike some guys who live alone, my john didn’t allow his living quarters to become cluttered. Instead of cramming furniture in everywhere it would fit, he restricted himself a few, expensive-looking pieces, strategically placed, with lots of floor space around them. He was tidy—and, in all probability, he availed himself of a cleaning service.

  I set my gym bag down on the floor, near the door. He turned on a couple of table lamps in the living room.

  “I suppose you’d like your money now?” he asked.

  “Oh, don’t bother, just now. Later will be fine.”

  Demanding the money upfront is a mark of a no-class hustler. A john is more likely to include a tip if he pays you afterward, in the balmy afterglow immediately following the sex. And counting the cash in front of the john is another no-no. If he chooses to shortchange you, you chalk it up to experience, and you cross the cheapskate off your list and don’t trick with him again. (And there’s no law against warning your fellow male prostitutes about him.)

  “Would you like something to drink?” was his next question.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to something cold,” I replied.

  “I have all sorts of things in the refrigerator.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look for myself?”

  “Not at all.”

  He led me into the kitchen, which was spotless, with gleaming appliances, and a collection of heavy-duty, professional chef’s quality pots and pans on a rack.

  A smart hustler, tricking with a client for the first time, doesn’t eat or drink anything the john offers him. You never know when the guy could be some kind of a freak, who might try to slip you a drug. (It’s different, of course, if the john is treating you to dinner at a restaurant; or if he’s a repeat customer, whom you know you can trust.) That’s why I wanted to inspect the contents of his refrigerator for myself.

  He had milk, orange and tomato juice, soft drinks and beer in bottle and cans, and a six-pack of plastic bottles of mineral water.

  “Do you mind if I have one of these bottles of water?” I asked him.

  “No, go right ahead.”

  “Thanks. And what can I get for you?”

  “Well, if you don’t mind playing bartender … if you open the cabinet door above the countertop, on the right-hand side, you’ll see a bottle of whiskey and some glasses. If you’ll put a couple of ice cubes in the glass, and fill it up, that’d be great. I like to treat myself to a good, stiff drink at night.”

  I began to prepare his drink. “And what other good, stiff things do you like to treat yourself to?”

  He giggled. “You’re very bad! Don’t worry—I intend to show you, in a minute. But let me get some of this inside me, first,” he added, as I handed him his whiskey on the rocks.

  I made a mental note to myself to discourage him from getting too drunk, if I saw him headed in that direction. Intoxicated or stoned johns can be a pain to have to deal with. But he sipped the whiskey like a connoisseur, instead of guzzling it, which was reassuring.

  “Would you like something to eat, too?” he asked. He was quite a polite, considerable host.

  “No, thanks.”

  We carried our drinks back into the living room. He brought the whiskey bottle with him.

  I seated myself on his long leather couch. The upholstery was firm, sagging only slightly under my weight as I sat back, got comfortable, and relaxed. I unscrewed the cap from my bottle of water, and took a sip. He sat down in an armchair, not far away from me, but with the coffee table between us.

  “Let me know when you’d like us to get started,” I said, casually.

  “Ah, not yet, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all. It’s your party. I’m here to please you.”

  “Well, there is one thing you could do for me, in the meantime.”

  “Yeah? And that is?”

  “Undress, and let me see that fantastic body of yours.”

  “Sure.” I set my water bottle down on the coffee table. I stood up, and I began to strip, taking my time doing it, putting on a little strip show for him—which was what I suspected was what he wanted.

  First, I kicked off my shoes. Then I pulled my T-shirt out of my jeans and worked it up my torso to my armpits, and then over my head and down my arms and off, the way I had shed it back at the train station. The action had the same effect on him now. He held his glass in front of his lips, but he forgot to drink from it for a moment, so engrossed was he by the sig
ht of my bared torso.

  “Look at that chest,” he murmured, as though he was talking to himself, not to me. “It’s huge!”

  “And I can do tricks with it,” I boasted. “Watch.”

  First, I flexed my arms, bending them at the elbows and making my biceps bulge. Then, tightening my pectoral muscles, I made them twitch—first the right pec, then the left. I repeated the process. My john stared at me, bug-eyed. Now he did raise the glass to his lips and take a hefty swig.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed, keeping his eyes fixed on my chest. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “No. It feels kind of good, actually. Kind of erotic, as a matter of fact.” As I spoke, I opened the waistband of my jeans. I pulled the zipper down—slowly, teasingly. Spreading the fly of the jeans wide open, I let him see the snug-fitting white jockey shorts I wore under them.

  “You want me to get naked? Right here in your living room?” I asked.

  “Please,” my john begged me, all submission.

  I shed the jeans, pushing them down my thick thighs and bulging calves to my ankles, and stepping out of them. I stripped off my socks. Then it was time to lose my briefs. I peeled them down my legs as well, and freed my feet from them. Nude, I straightened back up, and I stood between the coffee table and the couch. I retrieved my water bottle and drank from it.

  He was drinking, too, pouring more whiskey into the glass and gulping it down as he stared at me.

  “You’re beautiful,” he breathed. “You’re perfect. Such a magnificent physique—!”

  “You’re not so bad-looking, yourself. Why don’t you get undressed, too?”