I would welcome your comments whether you like my story or not. It is not yet all written (I plan for ten installments) so your criticism may change future chapters. Peace, Justin.
justinnewjersey@yahoo.com
Even for a Monday, the place filled up pretty quickly. It was just Robby, me, and the black guy. He was all right I guess, but kinda scrawny.and, I thought, gay.
The music sucked big time. It was that disco shit the faggots like. I followed Robby' lead. This shit was really fucked up, but I told myself I needed the money. We started out on a little dance floor stage area, and then when we got down to our boxer briefs, we were supposed to walk around the bar. That was usually how you made your tips, by stopping in front of some queer until he gave you money.
Robby surprised me. He was a pretty good dancer. The black guy, whose name turned out to be Rashid, was a really good dancer, no duh. I sucked, but then I had had never really danced much. I pretty quickly picked up from watching Robby that the more you smiled and talked to a guy at the bar, the more they stuck dollar bills in the waist of your underwear.
The first time somebody reached out to do that, I almost punched the guy. Good thing I didn't. Still, every time somebody did that, the first hour or so, I almost heaved. I hate faggots. But, I kept telling myself, dude, this is cash.
We got a couple of breaks, and customers bought us a couple more beers, and next thing I knew it was 1:45 and quitting time. I was a little disappointed, because after I re-paid Robby the fifty, I only had $81, but he said it was a Monday and I'd make tons more as the week wore on.
And he was right. I danced the next three nights and was holding a couple hundred by Friday, which was pretty dope, even after paying Miguel. We never talked about it as we rode back to the neighborhood on the El each night, or the next few days as we moved our stuff into the room we rented together. And we never talked about it in front of Nicole or any other girl.
The third night near closing the black guy Rashid came on to me, and I knocked him up against his locker. I had to get serious too about a couple of the customers, who tried to feel up my junk while I was talking to them. That ended any tips from them, but I let them know who was boss and that I wasn't no fag.
Miguel had come back the first night and told me I had been cool. The staff at the club said I could come back, even if I sucked as a dancer. They said it had been a long time since they had a blond and that a lot of customers liked that.
But then like everything with Robby, it got crazy again. It seemed no matter how much money he made doing something, he'd find a new way to spend it. He had started doing more crack, and was in to Miguel pretty good. Some nights he wouldn't come back to the room at all, and if Nicole came by I'd fuck her so she wouldn't miss him.
It was Miguel who spilled the beans. He came by one day looking for Robby and the money he was owed. Since Robby wasn't there, and I didn't know where he was, me and Miguel did a little crystal and rapped a bit. That's when he started telling me about the latest shit Robby was into. I think he was mad about the money and wanted to embarrass Robby.
Miguel asked me if I knew what an escort was. Sure, I told him, it's like a high- class call girl who goes to hotels in Center City and gets fucked by businessmen from out of town. Well yeah, Miguel said, but there's male escorts too.
I had seen a few crack heads in my day, in our neighborhood, stand near where the female hookers stood, looking to get blowed for fifty bucks. Even seen a few real fags from school do it for money on those corners too. But I didn't think of them as "escorts".
But yeah, Miguel told me, there were male escorts. And Miguel handled a few. Men called Miguel's cell and he'd tell him who he had available that night, what they did, and what it cost. Then he'd send the dude out to a hotel or somebody's house. It happened more than I thought, Miguel said.
This all seemed too fucked up to imagine, especially since I was high. I couldn't believe a really cool guy like Miguel could be involved in this, and I told him so. That's when he told me that Robby had started working for him as an escort.
I guess I kinda fucked up because I said some things about Miguel that I shouldn't have. I mean, if all this was true, then it was Robby who was the faggot, but here I was telling Miguel that maybe he was the fucked up queer.
Well, as I was gonna learn, Miguel had a fuck of a temper. And he was pretty high. And a lot stronger and bigger than me. I must have pissed him off pretty bad, because he went off. On me.
I've blocked a lot of that afternoon out. I do remember that Miguel punched me in the face a couple of times, enough so that I was on the floor, sucking air, saying chill dude, chill.
Miguel wasn't in the mood to chill, and he grabbed me and threw me on my stomach on top of the one bed. He twisted my arms so bad I thought they would snap, and he just kept telling me that I was the faggot, and I better not scream or yell or he'd cut me. I could feel the switchblade at my neck.
He ripped off my tee shirt and stuck it in my mouth. Then he pulled my jeans and boxers down in the next second. I started bucking pretty good by this point, but he just applied that cold steel to my neck again and told me I was a stupid little bitch, who better stay still if I knew what was good for me. Bitch?
Man, I'd seen some shit since I started dancing and stuff, but what happened next freaked me out the worst. I should have figured when he pulled down my jeans what was going down, but somehow, as fucked up as I was on meth and fear, I thought, like an asshole, that he was gonna do something to my dick, like blow me or jerk me off.
What a shithead I was. Within seconds he was trying to shove his dick up my ass! I squirmed and tried to scream through the gag, but he just kept twisting my arms and running the blade along my neck.
Miguel finally got his dick up my ass, and man did it hurt like shit. I started crying and twisting my ass in protest. But he kept pushing in and out, spitting on his dick. He started calling me names, like sick little faggot, motherfuckin queer, and fuckin bitch. He came in my ass, the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to me.
Then he must have punched me and I blacked out. The next thing I knew, I woke up with the mother of all headaches, in the room at the club where the dancers changed. Miguel must have picked me up from the bed and carried me out to his car and driven me into Center City.
I was sitting on the floor, my jeans and boxers hitched up to my waist and all twisted up, and no shirt on. But worst of all, a puddle of wet liquid was in my boxers and seemed to be oozing out my ass. I was humiliated, pissed off, and very scared. What the fuck had I gotten myself into with Miguel?
And now here I was, sitting on the floor of a faggot bar, half naked, and some dude had just used me as a cum dump. Getting fucked up the ass was the positively worst thing that had ever happened to me. I vowed to myself that I'd find the prick and make him pay.