This work is a product of the author's imagination. Places, events and people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you like it!
If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then email me at: Calebgraemefj@iinet.net.au
HUSTLER pt 1
I looked at my watch as I climbed the stairs to Pete's bedroom. I noticed that the sun was already coming up - the sky to the east was a blaze of gold. I ground my teeth. The bastard always liked to sleep late, but on this of all days .... I paused outside his bedroom and coughed discreetly. I heard a rumbling grunt from inside and I took that as an invitation to enter. I went straight to the window and whipped back the drapes, letting the rising sun's light pour in. There was a muffled "Oh shit!" from the piled up bed linen.
"Come on," I said heartlessly, "Get up. You know you can't afford to be late today."
"Piss off, " he mumbled and tried to roll over to get back to sleep. I was too quick for him. "No you don't," I said and ruthlessly pulled all the bed covers off him. I saw then there was not one but TWO bodies in the bed.
"Bloody hell," I muttered and went to the wardrobe to select clothes for him to wear. Pete was sitting on the side of the bed, yawning hugely.
"Did you get any sleep last night?" I said as sarcastically as I could. He looked at the sleeping body beside him. "Not much." And then he scratched his balls. He gave a sigh and said, "Coffee?"
"Ready downstairs. You have your shower and get dressed as quickly as you can." He scowled and staggered towards the bathroom. I heard the sound of his pissing, while I sorted out his clothes and lay them over the back of a chair. The shower started up and the body in the bed muttered and continued sleeping. I sidled up to the bathroom. "What about Sleeping Beauty?" although I knew the answer to that already.
He poked his head around the shower curtain. "Could you get rid of him when I'm gone? Pay him off, but not too much."
I was disgusted. "Fuck, Pete. Not another hustler. One day, you'll stick your cock in one trash can too many."
He drew back the shower curtain, leered at me, and mimed wanking his cock. I couldn't help but grin.
"OK," I said, "but you get a move on. It's a long drive and this is one day you don't want to keep Bernie waiting."
"He's my fuckin' agent. He's paid to wait." "Not today," I said firmly. "He's taken a lot of trouble to set up this picture deal, and the least you can do is show your appreciation for his efforts."
"Yes mother," he said with mock meekness as he toweled himself dry. Much as loved to watch his beautiful naked body, I hurried downstairs. The phone rang and I snatched it up.
"Dan. Is he up yet?" "Nearly ready to go, Bernie. You'll have him within the hour."
"You're a good man, Dan. The bastard doesn't deserve you." "Thanks Bernie. I accept cheques."
Bernie gave a dry laugh. "Just make sure he's here." And he hung up.
Pete came clattering down the steps, strapping on his watch as he came. "Are you sure about these clothes?" he asked.
"You look great," I said as I handed him a cup of coffee. "Neat but not gaudy." He gulped the coffee and I threw him the car keys.
"Take the Spider," I said, "I have to take the Porsche to be serviced." He thrust the coffee cup at me and dashed to the door, where he stopped, turned and faced me and slowly put on his sunglasses. "Thanks dude." He said, flashing his famous movie star smile.
I just snorted. "Go!" I said pointing to the door.
I listened as the sports car roared down the drive and silence reigned. With a sigh, I sat down. I was only thirty-two and I felt a hundred years old. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sipped it in calm silence. I looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes to get him up and out of the house. Not bad. I mentally reviewed what I had to do for the day, and suddenly remembered there was one job that demanded immediate attention.
I climbed the stairs again and entered the bedroom.
The sleeper, a husky young guy, had spread out and really looked innocent. He was very very beautiful. Pale muscled body and long gold hair, tousled like the archetype gay farm boy. I tried to assess how much this piece of ass would cost my employer. Another thought: this hustler couldn't be very experienced if he didn't get the cash up front. Ah well. I started picking up the discarded clothing off the floor, sorting out Pete's and the hustler's. The contrast in the clothing was obvious. Pete's were all designer labels; bought on the recommendation of that harpy he called his stylist. This guy's, on the other hand, were rather sad: cheap, worn and ripped, even grubby. His shoes were worn to the point of disintegration and his cotton socks had holes in them. I started to feel sorry for the guy and on an impulse, gathered them all up and took them down to the washing machine.
I left the machine chugging away and went up to the bedroom again. I gently shook the guy. "Hey," I said. "Wake up."
He sat up, startled and wide-awake. He looked around, mystified, and then looked back at me. "Who're you?" he said. I was shocked by his eyes: bright cornflower blue. They had to be contacts - but no. How could he afford colored contacts?
"I'm Dan," I said, "I work here." I smiled at him. "Where's - where's - um - the other guy?" I chuckled inwardly at that. He's forgotten Pete's name already.
"He had to go. Work. New film." "He's a movie star? Shee-it! No kiddin'?" He's very good, I thought. Got the innocent farm-boy down pat.
"Nope," I said, "He's a movie star. Peter Nevin." He laughed. "Well, hot damn! A movie star! Are you a movie star too?"
Oh pull-ease!! This was taking the act too far! I kept smiling but my eyes were dissecting him. "Do I look like a movie star?" I said. He shrugged. "Maybe." I laughed. My face has never been my fortune.
"Nice try," I said. He looked puzzled. "So," I said, "Are you going to get up?" He looked flustered and slid out of bed and stood there naked, looking around.
I was stunned by his magnificent beauty.
"Where's my clothes?" he said accusingly. I shook my head.
"Oh, sorry," I said, " I took them. They're in the washing machine." He flushed. "You didn't have to do that."
"No trouble," I said, "While you're waiting, you can have a shower. I'll get you something to wear." He smiled shyly. "I'd like a shower. Jizz is running down my legs."
I gasped. Too much information! "Shower's in there," and I pointed to the bathroom. He padded across to the shower. I watched his magnificent butt as it retreated from me. He was right. I could see the shiny wetness on the backs of his thighs. Fuck! Didn't Pete wear a condom?
I was instantly erect, and I had to give myself a mental shake. He's a hustler, I told myself. You can't afford him.
I rummaged through Pete's clothes cupboard. Pete had a vast quantity of clothes that he almost never wore. I selected a couple of pairs of jocks to start with, socks, two t-shirts and a pair of board shorts that I knew Pete didn't like. I judged the size to be about right, although this guy was a lot more muscular than Pete.
I quickly made the bed and laid out the clothes on it. I heard him singing in a flat, off-key but happy way. He appeared at the door toweling his huge genitals. He saw the clothes on the bed and exclaimed, "Shee-it! Are these for me?" "Yep," I said, "You can keep them. When yours are dry, I'll pack them up for you. Now, are you hungry? Do you want some breakfast?" He looked surprised, then broke into a big grin. "That's mighty nice of you, Dan. Breakfast would be real good. Thanks. I ain't et for a couple of days."
I was instantly suspicious but there wasn't any guile about him. God, he's good, I thought. I stared at him, but he was unconscious of my scrutiny. He was happily trying to shove his ample package into the front of his new jocks. I watched him as he donned the board shorts and a T-shirt, and I indicated that he follow me.
As we descended to the kitchen, I asked, "What's your name?" There was a pause and then he said, firmly, "Skip."
Skip! No one's called Skip! "What's your real name?" A very long pause. "Henry." He said in a small voice. I glanced at him. He was blushing and hanging his head, giving every indication of being ashamed at being caught out in a shabby lie. In spite of myself, I was touched.
I said gently, "What do you want me to call you? Henry or Skip?" He looked up and this time flushed with pleasure. "I like Skip," he said.
"OK. So Skip," I said, "What do you want for breakfast?" He looked shy again. "Just whatever you think, Dan."
He does shy very well, I thought. "How about some bacon and eggs, and I'll fry some onions and a couple of tomatoes and there's some mushrooms left over from last night. And there's orange juice and coffee if you want it.... Or tea," I added as an afterthought. He gaped. "Shee-it. That sounds swell, Dan." Swell? He actually said "swell"?
I bustled about, throwing the food into a pan. I looked at Skip and decided on four eggs. He sat at the table and was watching me with those amazing eyes, like a dog watching me unwrap a bar of chocolate. I began to revise my opinion slightly. Maybe he hadn't eaten for a couple of days.
"Where are you from, Skip?" He looked like a schoolboy. "Oklahoma," he said with the classic Oklahoma drawl. "Not been in LA long, have you?" I said. "Nope. Only a month." Our conversation lapsed while I cooked the food. "Where you from, Dan?" That question surprised me. "You're not from LA either." "How do you know that?" I was suddenly curious. "You talk funny."
I bridled slightly, then my sense of the ridiculous got the better of me. There wasn't an ounce of malice in him. "You're right," I said, "I'm from Australia." I looked at him. "You know where that is?" "Yep. Um - Put another shrimp on the barbie.." in a very very bad Australian accent. I laughed out loud and he laughed along with me. "Prawn," I said. "What?" "In Australia it's a prawn, not a shrimp." "OK," he said, "put another prawn on the barbie." I laughed again, and again he laughed with me. "Oh stop, stop," I said, chortling, "Paul Hogan you ain't." I kept giggling as I served the food on to his plate, and he attacked it with relish.
My laughter died as I watched him. I suddenly knew this beautiful guy was no hustler. He really was an innocent and it would be only a matter of time before he was exploited, corrupted and destroyed - destroyed as surely as if he stood on the railroad tracks in front of an oncoming express.
My heart ached for him. Pete wanted me to do his dirty work - to throw him into gutter after he'd used him up. Fuck and damn Pete for putting me in this position.
I went to the desk in the office. "Eat up, " I called out to him, "I've just got something to do." I sat at the desk and pulled out the cash tin. I was at a loss for a moment about how much to pay him. I couldn't help but think of the miserable state of his clothes and the way he was attacking the food. God, I thought, I'm a sucker. I sighed and counted out fifteen hundred dollars. Then, as an after thought, I added another five hundred. I could always juggle the housekeeping, and if Pete got shitty - highly unlikely: he would have forgotten last night's fuck by now - I could always replace it out of my own pocket. I tucked the notes into an envelope and discreetly placed it by Skip as he wolfed his food.
He stopped eating as he looked at the envelope. "What's this?" I felt strangely ashamed. "For you, Skip. For services rendered. And for discretion. Your clothes should be dry by now. I'll bundle them up for you." And I escaped to the laundry. I was muttering curses on Pete's head as I folded the clothes. Skip filled the doorway. "Fuck you Dan. I ain't no hoo-er!" He tossed the envelope on the tiled floor.
I looked at him levelly. It was time he learned the facts of life.
"We're all whores in Hollywood, Skip - one way or another - from the cheapest two-bit hooker right up to the snootiest rich-bitch who marries for power. Movie stars, producers, even the technicians who make the movies happen. Whores, one and all." "Yeah, but you ain't no hoo-er!"
That got to me, and I started to get angry.
"Oh, I'm a whore, Skip. Believe it. I'm pissing away my life dancing attendance of the most self-centered, cold-hearted cunt you could ever wish to meet. I feed him, I pimp for him, I make sure he keeps his appointments, I juggle his schedules, I clean up after him, and yes, I've even wiped his bum on occasions, and if I'm a good boy, a very good boy, he lets me suck his cock from time to time when he's too lazy to pick-up street trash or even to jerk off. And for this he pays me money - lots and lots and lots of money! Yes, I'm a whore, Skip. A fucking big one."
I was shaking with anger and I bent down and picked up the envelope and held it out to him. "Take the money, Skip. You need it more than he does." I thrust the money into his hand and stomped out of the laundry, carrying the clothes I had savagely folded. Why was I so angry? Then I realized. Skip's innocence had made me feel the chains that bound me: chains of gold and lust that I had forged myself.
I sat down exhausted, suddenly filled with sadness and regret.
"Dan ....." I looked up. Skip stood across the room looking lost. He said softly, "You can fuck me if you want." Oh God! He was trying to comfort me and was offering the only thing he had.
I took a deep breath and returned to the present. "I think, Skip, you've been fucked too much. I don't want to add to your woes."
He was indignant. "Hey, I'm clean!" I closed my eyes. God spare me from such innocence! I gave a cynical snort. "That's not what I meant. And that reminds me.." I added sternly. "Never NEVER let a guy fuck you without a condom. And you wear one too when you're fucking a strange arse-hole."
He looked a bit shame-faced. "I don't like wearing 'em. They're always too tight. They strangle me." "No one likes wearing rubbers, Skip, but you've got to do it. I've seen too many of my friends waste away till they die. If you can't find big ones, I'll give you a pack of mine."
His eyes twinkled. "You got a big cock?" My lips twitched as I tried to keep my face looking stern. He really was enchanting. "Let's change the subject," I said. "I have to go into LA to drop off the Porsche. I can give you a lift if you'd like."
His eyes sparkled. "Shee-it! I reckon. Thanks Dan." "Can you drive?" "Fuckin' A! You'd let me drive it?" "If you want to... well, maybe not in the city, but till we get there... yeah."
He was like a kid with the promise of a visit to Disneyland. He raced back to the breakfast room, finishing his food and gulping down coffee. I darted into my room and rummaged around till I found an unopened pack of jumbo-sized condoms. Unopened. Typical!
I gathered up my wallet and car keys and went into the breakfast room. I tossed the condoms on the table and said, "Here. These will fit a horse."
He snapped back with, "Hey. Just my size!" I couldn't help laughing, and he laughed too. He shoved them in his back pocket and said, "Thanks Dan. You're real nice."
Yep. That's me. Mr. Nice. Mr. Fuckin' Nice.
"One more thing," I said, as I took out a business card, and scribbled on the back of it. "Now listen carefully. This is my cell number. I never turn my cell off and I keep it with me always. If you're in any sort of trouble, you ring me. Any time. I mean ANY time. I'll answer the call, even if I'm taking a dump. Any time. Got it?"
He nodded solemnly and read the name on the card. "Daniel...Radcliffe?"
I sighed. "Any joke you feel like making has already been made a thousand times." He looked puzzled and carefully slid the card into his sock. "OK," I said, "Finished?" He nodded. "Good! Gather up your clothes and follow me."
When I threw open the garage, Skip made orgasmic noises as he saw the Porsche. "Fuckin' A!" I backed it out and then got out and invited him into the driver's seat. As I got in the other side, he was stroking the wheel in an act of worship. I watched him, amused, for several minutes then said, "Take her out, Mr. Scott."
He grinned and said, "Aye, aye, Capt'n," in a (terrible) Scot's accent, and we roared off down the driveway, scattering gravel everywhere.
He was laughing madly and letting out loud cowboy whoops as we careered through the suburban streets and on to the freeway. He accelerated still whooping and the miles flew by. All too soon the city loomed in the distance and I tapped him on the shoulder and indicated for him to pull over. He nodded and swung over to the verge and screeched to a halt. There was irate honking from the cars behind, but Skip stood up in the car and gave them the finger.
We swapped sides and Skip was panting with excitement and his amazing eyes were shining. "Thanks Dan, " he said, "That was awesome. I'll never forget it as long as I live."
I pulled out into the traffic and proceeded at a more sedate pace. His words struck home and I realized, with a pang, that soon I would never see him again. His was still laughing and whooping, and yelling at the other cars on the freeway. I, on the other hand, found myself getting more and more solemn. Feeling a knot in my stomach, I took an off ramp and in a couple of minutes pulled up at the destination I had chosen for him.
He was serious. He looked at me. "Thanks Dan. For everything." He got out and looked around. "Where are we?"
"It's the bus station, Skip." He stared at me as the implication sunk in. He suddenly looked frightened.
"Go home, Skip," I said. "Go back to Oklahoma. Go back to Mom and Pop and apple pie. Go back to your hometown. Go back to the high school buddy who used to fuck you. Go back to your friends and where everyone knows you. Go back to where they call you Henry." Without another word, I roared off, leaving him standing forlorn and alone.
And the wind stung my eyes.