The familiar panic now had me and I said I had to leave. He worked himself and I saw his prick was coming along just like he said. If I didn’t get out of there he was going to make me do something I didn’t want to do. “I have to go,” I told him and I didn’t look back.

Now, sitting in my truck months later, I try to recall that panic but I can’t get a feel for how any of it could have scared me. I can’t believe having a guy suck my cock was such a big deal because once I finally let it happen, it was nothing. I’ve had a dozen blowjobs since then and I came every time because if there’s one thing guys know, it’s how to give head—unlike Linda, who acts like I’m making her eat shit.

So the deal for tonight is three guys for the evening, which means they can fuck the hell out of me, then fuck me again, suck my dick, my tits, whatever the hell they want to suck. As I finish the third beer, I unzip my jeans because now I’m hard. I get out my dick, let it stand tall while I look up the street. A car passes and I wonder if that guy wants to fuck too, if the whole goddamned world is taking it up the ass, but why the hell not? I take hold of my meat, give it a few strokes as I ease down in the seat and spread my legs. I could come now and I squirm as I think about what’s gonna be up my butt in about ten minutes, squeezing my muscle like it’s already in there. Maybe with three of them one’s gonna suck my dick while I take a cock. That would really be something. I blow out a long sigh, stuff my dick back in my jeans, zip up, and get out of the truck. I’m dirty from the job, can smell my own sweat, but I know they like that. I tote my boner across the street, ready for anything.

Real

Bill Brent

~for Puma~

PORN STAR

Huge Dick

Very expensive. Worth it.

Mean 31, 6'1", 180, blond,

gorgeous. Farmboy looks,

dungeon attitude. For real.

And you?

So I was born lucky and raised arrogant.

It’s possibly my best ad yet, good enough to ensure a lucrative month. If I don’t want a job, or if a client has a particular need that isn’t my specialty, I just refer him to a colleague. I don’t take a cut for referrals; they’re good for business. My friends and I trade clients a lot. It’s pretty common. Ever since Governor Newsom decriminalized prostitution back in ’21, industry standards have steadily increased. There’s hardly a call boy in all of North California who can’t earn a decent living these days, provided he has good business sense and doesn’t snort it up his nose. All in all, the Hedonism Decriminalization Act has been a real boon to the new state’s tourism industry.

It’s been a great week, starting with my favorite couple, Gaylord and Glenn. Gaylord is a renowned opera singer, and his lover Glenn owns one of the city’s biggest travel agencies. Like so many couples in this town, they have a major boy-porn fetish. I’m sure they’ve seen most of my flicks. And they have the means to rent a hustler; in fact, Glenn “gave” me to his partner as last year’s birthday present! It started innocently enough, as a striptease, working up to a slow, sensuous j/o, but then Glenn had me fuck Gaylord over their parlor-room sofa, resulting in a few notes from Gaylord that I’m sure even his most loyal fans had never heard.

But lately, things have gotten heavier; on Monday night, Glenn had me fuck Gaylord up his wondrously tight butt while pulling his lover’s hair, torturing him with increasingly severe sets of clips and clamps, and taking him down with an endless spew of humiliatingly harsh endearments. Some of the standouts I recall were “faggot punk boypussy bitch,” and “disgusting, dick-loving cumslut.” I later told Glenn that if travel business ever fell off, he could always find work as a Master specializing in verbal abuse. Gaylord grinned and said that having a boyfriend like Glenn to push his buttons sure took the edge off of having to act like an “uppity-bitch tenor” to get what he wanted in his career. They can afford my going rate, but I usually give regulars a huge discount on special occasions. Again, good for business. But this pair is such a nasty mindblower that it’s almost tough for me to charge them full tilt!

And there was the gay fraternity initiation at USF. God, I love college boys. Especially when I get to humiliate them one at a time in front of their friends while shoving buttplugs up their tender young butts. The real test in this frat was to keep it in while being paddled by the long row of seniors—almost impossible. Expelling the plug, of course, resulted in further punishment—tied face-down to a dorm cot and reamed repeatedly with a leek, all while being subjected to an increasingly demeaning series of puns about leaking bottoms. Groan.

The enforced wearing of diapers was bad enough, but then these little pricks would fill them with eggs and kick the pledge down the line—you get the picture. Typical, puerile fratboy stuff, I know, but who am I to turn down a roomful of hot, young men just because they’re privileged little snots with a juvenile sense of humor, especially when they’re paying me and two friends top dollar to do the full leather-hood-and-crop routine? For “authenticity,” you understand.

I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when my video pager went off. I can often intuit a heavy scene before I even pick up, and this one was a five-alarmer. It was deceptively simple, even typical: an older guy calls, needing to see me immediately because he’s built up this intense fantasy of me based on my ad. By the time he actually makes the call, he’s afraid that if we can’t get together right away, he’ll lose his nerve. These guys tend to be a lot of work, but treat them well, and they often turn into devoted regulars—the sweetest, most appreciative guys of all, and generous to a fault.

I saw his scan. “Hello.” A handsome, well-built man of about fifty-five.

“Uh, hi. I saw your ad, and…” He trailed off.

“How can I help?” That phrase usually puts the timid ones at ease.

“Do you own a black leather trench coat?”

“Well, sure.” Aha. A noir fetishist. The constant recycling of past decades through the culture had achieved its ultimate realization around the turn of the century: era fetish.

I subtly shifted into my best Bogart. “Not only that, my playspace is VR-outfitted, state of the art, and I have the latest discs. Everything from medieval dungeon to New York subway T-room. Also got a Sony-Philips phase-shifter, so if you wanna combine, say, Key Largo and urban construction site—”

“No. Nothing virtual, please. I want the scene to be completely real. You and me and our passions merged. Nothing more.”

“Except my trench coat.” I smirked. I had a real poet on the line. “Okay, Dante. Tell me more. What merges your passions with mine?”

“Well, I’m into jockstraps, and heavy tit torture, I like verbal abuse…and I’d like to be your cock slave.” Embarrassed pause. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about calling you for months, but I didn’t have the nerve.”

“Sounds good to me.” I was right; this one had been saving it up. “How much S/M have you done, anyway?”

“I’ve been doing S/M privately for about fifteen years.”

I asked him about his limits, turn-offs, and so forth. He sounded insatiable. I would have to remember to pace myself so I didn’t burn out before he did.

“Usually, I offer a two-hour session; sounds like we can skip the massage—”

“That was the next thing. I’d like to do an all-nighter, if you’re available.”

Wow, this guy was serious. “I’d love to, as long as you can pay my rate. That’s a thousand in, with a two-hundred-dollar deposit up front, nonrefundable in the event of cancellation or a no-show.”