These are short stories about male prostitution, "one night stands" involving guys. If the idea of that turns you off, or if you are underage, please read no further. Otherwise, please enjoy.
All characters and events are fictional.
You can reach the author at macoutmann@yahoo.com. He appreciates your input and will answer all your emails.
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HUSTLER TALES II
L.A. WEEKEND
by Macout Mann
I was hitching down to LA. It was a Saturday afternoon. The dude that picked me up was a real bear. Not fat, just "chunky built," as my momma used to say. Wearing a wife beater and cargo pants. Nothing about him said anything like "gay," so I was thinking we'd be talking football or baseball or whatever.
Instead, the first thing out of his mouth was, "You gotta a nice bod. Ever show it off?"
"What d'ya mean?" I asked.
"I own, well I guess you'd say it's a `gay' night club," he answered. "I'm not gay. It's a way to make a living. But, shit, man, I'm in a bind. This motherfucker that was goanna headline my show tonight's wound up in fucking jail. Got caught sucking dick in a fucking john. So I'm up Shit Creek
He continued. "For a guy to be a stripper, you don't really have to dance, just prance around with the music and shed your clothes. The important thing is to have a bod that the customers want to look at. The way your fucking t shirt clings to your pecs shows me you got what it takes upstairs, and the fucking bulge in your jeans tells me the queers will love what you got downstairs.
"Do two shows for me tonight and it'll be worth a coupla C notes. If you're willing to let a customer or two play with your junk, you'll pick up some extra."
"Man, you got yourself a deal," I said. "I aint goanna lie. I hustle sometimes."
"I thought you might," he laughed. "Sort of the way you carry yourself."
He told me his name was Oscar, and when we got to his club, he asked me if I was wearing anything but my t shirt and jeans. I told him no, that I freeball, but I did have a sport shirt I could pull on over my t. He said he could let me have a jockstrap, a baseball cap, and a belt. With my shoes and socks that'd give me ten things to take off. I said I also had some tight-fitting cutoffs in my duffle bag. They'd be easier to get out of than jeans.
The keyboards guy from the trio was already there, so I rehearsed with him, tryin' to see whether I could dance and strip at the same time. Oscar said I'd do. Told me not to take off the sport shirt all at once, though, to unbutton it a little at a time, then toss it. Same with the cutoffs.
The keyboard man obviously was straight. When the other two arrived, I decided the base player coulda been gay, but the drummer sure as shit was. He was younger than the other two, didn't look old enough to be working in a place like this. But shirtless on his throne with his trap set, he was pretty hot. Slender and sexy. His attitude toward me made it clear that he wouldn't mind us gettin' together either.
Now I aint no muscle man. These "Mr. America" freaks really turn me off. But I got a nice build and a good six pack. I've seen bigger dicks, but I aint never been ashamed of mine. So I was really looking forward to the gig. Gulping down a couple of drafts also helped the nerves.
The club filled up pretty quick during happy hour. The other act was a female impersonator, a real nellie. They turn me off too, so I stayed out at the bar, so I wouldn't have to spend time with her...or him. The first show wasn't until nine. Got hit on by a couple of the customers while I was waitin'.
Nobody knew I was part of the show, until Nellie had finished her routine. Then Oscar got up and said that the advertised headliner wouldn't appear. "Had an accident," he said. "But we've got an even bigger treat for ya. For the first time in L.A., direct from Nashville, where he's been heating up audiences for the last year, here is `Johnny Ballbuster!'"
I didn't know that was to be me, but the follow-spot hit me at the bar. I hightailed it to the stage and the combo struck up a tune. I was as nervous as a chick about to lose her cherry, but started off by mugging a couple of dudes I'd talked to earlier. I grabbed my crotch, and tried keep time to the music. The crowd seemed to like it. I tugged on my cap, tipped it a time or two, then tossed it backstage. "Aw, come on man!" somebody yelled.
"Don't rush me, gal!" I yelled back. That got a good laugh. I was gettin' with the program. I pretended I was having trouble getting outa my flip-flops and my socks. After I `d got rid of them, I unbuckled my belt—it had a big western buckle—and waved the two sides around for a while, before pulling it through the loops and tossing it. The drummer gave me a rim shot as it sailed off stage.
Then I started to unbutton my shirt. I'd undo one button, then spin around. Shaking my ass with my back to the audience, I'd pretend that I was unbuttoning the rest. But no, I'd just turn back and undo one more, while the audience yelled, "Nooo!" Finally, I tossed the shirt and pulled the tail of my t shirt out of my cutoffs, lettin' 'em see a little skin.
I lifted my t up a ways and then let it slip back down a few times before I pulled it over my head and tossed it. Another rim shot. "Nice pecs!" somebody called out.
"I think so!" I replied. Another big laugh.
I did the same routine with the buttons on my 501 cutoffs. And then I was left with just my borrowed jock strap. Everybody seemed to like what they were seeing. I pranced all over the stage for a minute or two. I'd stop and pull on the jock away from my gut and stare down at my dick, then look up at the `em real coy like, before prancing some more. The fucking drummer was going wild on his traps, when I finally pushed the jock off, revealing myself the way god made me. The spot went off and the stage blacked out. There was huge yelling and lots of applause.
I got back into my jock strap and took a bow, then headed backstage to get back in my clothes. The boss told me I was a natural and with a little practice could be a real pro. "Do that well at the next show and you can stay 'til Jack gets outa stir."
When I went back out front, I was the center of attention. Several guys groped me, but I told them not to touch the merchandise before it was paid for. That led to some bills being stuffed into my cutoffs. And I sure as hell didn't have to buy any more beer for the rest of the night.
The crowd for the second show was a lot rowdier, and I wasn't nervous at all. Just had fun. The musicians had a better idea of what I was goanna do, so things went a lot smoother. The boys ate it up. Afterwards I left the jockstrap backstage.
Oscar gave me my dough and said, "I can't get Jack out 'til Monday. I'll pay his fucking fine, and then the motherfucker will have to work free most of the week to pay me back.
"You're something else, man. I watched you between shows. They love the way you're so loose, and seem not to give a shit about anything. How about working tomorrow night?"
"Well, I dunno," I said. "I'd planned to be on my way." I figured I could get him to up the ante, and I was right.
"I'll make it three hundred," he said.
"O.K. I'll do it."
"Good. I'll make an announcement. And why don't you stick around 'til closing. You can pickup some more tips."
He was right. When the boys found out they could touch the real thing by reaching up under my cutoffs, my pants got stuffed with even more bills. By the end of the night, I had a wad. As much as the boss had paid me.
At "last call for alcohol," I was sitting at the bar. This dude comes up. He's about fifty. Dressed better than most. "What do you like?" he asks.
"Oh, I like almost anything," I answered, "but I need cash."
"Hummph," he says, and walks away. Three or four guys in earshot giggle.
One of 'em is a good looking young guy. Probably twenty-five. Blond. Wearing a sleeveless t and black Lee jeans. Nice biceps. "How much cash?" he whispers.
"Put me up for the night?"
He nods.
"How does fifty sound?"
"That's a little steep. But you do like almost anything, right?"
"No S&M," I say.
"Just your bod," he winks, "and mine.
"Let's go."
I changed into jeans and left my other stuff at the club. On the drive to his apartment, my new partner introduced himself. Marcus was his name. He also said he didn't normally mess with hustlers. "But you fascinate the hell outa me," he explained. "Not so much what you do on stage, but when you were down at the bar with the guys. I've never seen anybody so laid back."
"No use being uptight," I said. "When you live by your wits, you learn to hang loose."
"I had the feeling you'd just as soon be sitting on that barstool naked."
"Dude, I make my living with my dick," I laughed. "If you do that, being bareassed don't hang you up."
A couple of minutes later he asked, "You were doing the same sort of act in Nashville, Johnny?"
I laughed again. "I don't know why Oscar said that. I guess on account of my Southern accent. I aint never been on a stage before, Marcus. And my name's not Johnny."
"You've never done a strip tease? I can't believe that."
"Well, it's true."
His efficiency apartment was on the second floor in a pretty high class complex. Lawns like fairways, neatly trimmed plantings, good size pools. The apartment had only what a single guy needs, a big bed, a sofa, a table next to the kitchen, a tv, and a pc.
He stripped off his t shirt as we walked in. I liked what I saw. He wasted no time getting me shirtless and planted a kiss on each of my pecs. He didn't waste time. He opened my fly and began massaging my tool. "Damn, you're hot," he whispered.
I responded by undoing his tight black jeans and discovering that he had a nice dick too, about seven inches, I'd guess. His bush was neatly trimmed. I let mine sprout and he mentioned that I had more hair down there than anybody he'd ever seen.
When we were both naked, he decided we needed a drink and brought out some good Scotch. We sat on the couch, sipping our whiskey and nuzzling each other. "I love to cuddle," he said.
"Feels good," I answered. I let him take the lead. He sucked on my pecs, then licked my pits and tongued my ear. I did the same for him. We licked every inch of each other's bods. The foreplay went on for about an hour, before he took my dick into his mouth and buried his nose in my pubes. "Shit, yeah," I panted. "Eat that motherfucker."
After a couple of minutes I said, "let me taste you," and he did.
"God, you're good," he gasped.
"Givin' you your money's worth," I gurgled.
"I gotta fuck you," he breathed.
"Plenty of time for that," I mumbled. "I wanna taste your cum." It wasn't long before I did.
While he was refueling, we moved to the bed and he gave me head and drank my cream. He was a fucking master sucker. I let him know I really dug his talents. Then I asked him to tongue my ass.
Getting fucked isn't my favorite thing, but you gotta get it as well as give it, when you're whoring. And I could tell Marcus was really looking forward to burying his prong in my hole. He said he had some KY. I told him spit would do. He wet my hole real good, and I rolled onto my back and wet his dick with my spit. He impaled me with one thrust. "Ahhh..." he cried.
"Fuck me, man," I said.
"Yes!" he answered, and slowly began to pump in and out of my well-used ass. He made it last, as I knew he would; and I helped make his pleasure more intense by squeezing his tits, rubbing his gut, and grabbing his back. Make the John feel his best is my motto.
His orgasm was massive, and he collapsed on my chest , whimpering with satisfaction. We snuggled for a while, and then he surprised me by asking me to fuck him. I was hoping he might want to suck me off again, but I wasn't expecting to shove my dick up his ass. But that's what I did, and then we went to sleep.
It was Sunday and it was real late when we woke up. Marcus fixed us breakfast and I let him play with my dick some, before I asked him to drop me back somewhere near the club. I didn't have anyplace else to go and I knew it opened at four. I wandered around for awhile with over four hundred fifty dollars burning a hole in my pocket. Maybe I could make about that much tonight, I thought. With luck I might have a thousand for a weekend's work.
I walked into the club as soon as it opened. The bartender was the only one there, except for the drummer boy. He was already shirtless. "Hi, guy," the kid said, "I was hoping you'd get here early. I was hoping you'd let me suck your dick."
"Oh?" I replied.
"We can use my dad's office."
"Your dad?"
"Oh, you didn't know? I'm Oscar's kid." He let me know that his dad let him work "off the clock," because he wasn't but nineteen.
"And your old man don't mind you fucking around?" I asked.
"Nah," the kid said. "He knows I'm gay and he don't give a fuck." Then after a pause he added, "He says he's straight, but he'll mess around if he's in the mood."
"Well I need to get off anyway. Don't want to get a hard on during my act."
We headed to his dad's office and I leaned against the desk and unbuttoned my 501s. "I've wanted that thing since I first laid eyes on you," he said.
The kid went down on me even before I was all the way hard, and he sucked like it was going outa style. I deposited a generous load down his young throat. I say "young." Shit, he wasn't all that much younger than me.
When we left the office, the club was already beginning to fill up. The bartender said word must've got around about me. I went backstage, changed into my cutoffs and the rest of my "costume," then headed back to the bar. I was getting a few tips and gropes even during happy hour.
The Sunday shows were an hour earlier, at eight and ten. At the first one, when I got down to my jock, I added some "bumps" to my dance, like I was fucking somebody. That really went over. Afterward Oscar said business was so good he might want to add a third show. He'd give me an extra hundred. I said, "Sure." The place was really jumping.
After the third show, I left the jockstrap off like I had Saturday night with the same good results. More feels, more bills stuffed in my cutoffs. I was one tired motherfucker, though.
At closing time an old dude showed me a picture of Ben Franklin and said, "Come home and fuck me and it's yours, hotshot."
Shit, I already had over a thousand bucks tucked away. "Sorry, dude," I told him, "I'm already taken."
Oscar gave me his card and asked me to call him the next time I was out his way. He'd try to set up a week's work.
I headed for a nearby motel to get some rest.
Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.