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Lexington' Story -- Part 4
The middle of downtown had a park, or common, or green, depending on where in New England you were, which was a few blocks in size. The "front" of it was the central bus stop where all the busses stopped. The park was ringed by rail fences, which were just the right height to lean on while waiting for a bus, or to sit on, if so inclined, two rails, feet on bottom rail, bottom on the top, and, if looking for sex, for showing what you have.
"Wear boxers, or go commando, in sweats, or something thin enough to show your package," LeRoy said. "You will have clients in no time."
He proceeded to tell me how to tell the drug dealers from the "clients", about the cops who policed the place, and some of the clients, particularly the dangerous, or "sick" ones, AIDs being around, although not well understood, and not curable. He noted that if HE, fat as he was, could make good money there, I certainly could.
So, in October of my Junior year, I told my Mom I was going out with the guys after the Friday night football game, where I did well, showered with the guys, trying not to look at their cocks, and instead of going home, walked the half mile to the Meat Rack, commando, in sweats. I was 16.
"You will be surprised how many white guys will want your cock. BBC," he said, "Big Black Cock".
I hung around for a while, a few old guys approached me, I gave them all a "Maybe later," and just watched the scene, trying to figure out who was who. Who was dealing, who was looking for clients, who was just looking to hook up. I figured out a few guys, didn't see anyone who really turned me on, and it was clear that some guys were just afraid of me -- I looked pretty thuggish, I decided. Next time I would wear better clothes.
At about 10 pm, many of the bus routes ran the last bus, the number of people thinned out, and I was ready to call it a night. And older guy, maybe 60, approached me, and said, "Hi, you want to make a little money?" It was 10 and I hadn't made a dime.
"Maybe."
"Well, follow me to a place a little more private and we can talk about it."
He led me across the park to the old Parkside Hotel. It had been THE hotel, one hundred years ago, but had been turned into a rooming house, for the bottom of the barrel, mostly guys, but some women, a step above being homeless. The old hotel sign was still above the door, but there was a permanently lit, red neon, "No Vacancy" sign, by the door, just in case some tourist mistook it for a real hotel.
He unlocked the door, and then, an interior door, using the same key, and we went into the lobby. It still had a desk, but nobody behind it, and a few really beat up leather chairs. It was clean, it had that going for it, at least.
"Sit down, can I get you a beer, or a Coke, or something? By the way, my name is Sandy, short for Alexander."
"Lex, short for Lexington. A coke would be fine." If I had gone home smelling like beer there would be hell to pay.
"You know what happens here?" he asked.
"Word on the street is that it is a rooming house, for the almost homeless, and a whore house as well."
"You got it." He got me the Coke.
"I need a night desk guy, two nights a week, six pm to ten pm, $20 an hour, and if you want to make a few bucks on your own, on your time, you can take a room and a client up there. What was the restaurant, is now the bar and meeting room, where the clients meet up with the women and a few guys who work here. Want to see it?"
"Sure." He took me into what had once been a classy restaurant, now furnished as a living room, with a bar on one side, and a few tables in the middle. There was a big, NFL lineman big, guy behind the bar, a couple at the bar, and two women, each alone, at tables. Both white, both with heavy makeup, dressed in black, very short skirts, lots of breast showing. Both, I would guess, as old as my mother.
"I'd like to check you out, if you don't mind, come up with me to my room."
I followed him up two flights of stairs, the elevator was "out of order" and it stayed that way for the year I was involved with the place. At the third floor he unlocked room 312, we went in, it was relatively big for an old hotel, had its own bathroom with a tub and shower combo, and looked out on the park.
"Strip," he said. I did. "Jesus, that is a big cock, how big is it hard?"
Feeling brave, I responded, "Why not suck on it and find out?" He did, my cock reached full mast in less than a minute and he gagged on it. But he was game, and kept at it. "You want me to cum, or you want to make this last longer?'
"Last longer," he said, gasping for air, "you up to fucking me?"
"Sure." Now he was not someone I would ordinarily play with, too old, too flabby, but a really nice guy, and offering me what might be a decent part time job, with sex on the side. He stripped, I put on a condom, always prepared, he lubed it up, bent over the bed, and I slipped it in. And despite my size, his hole was so loose that it really did just slip in. It was easy to get in, but he had a talented asshole, and could clamp down on my cock, and milk it, and make it feel really good without my pumping in and out at all. His cock was nothing to write home about, or write here about.
We did this for a while, then he went into "fuck me, fuck me" mode, I did. "Flip me over." I did, he was still soft, uncut, the head hidden in loose foreskin, but it was dripping precum, or cum, I did not know which.
"Fuck me harder, pull my legs up higher, do it, fuck me," and I did, and I came, and he came, lots of cum all over his belly, it sort of oozed out, not squirted out, his cock still soft.
"Can you take off your condom and let me lick off your cum?" he asked, being very submissive.
"Sure."
I did, he did, and he spit it out. "Can't be too careful," he said, "AIDS and all." At that point in time it was becoming believed than it was not easily transmitted through oral sex, absent a cut in the mouth, and that somehow the juices in the digestive tract killed the virus, or at least neutralized it.
"The guys and the few women who just want a big cock will love you." We got washed up, dressed, and he gave me a tour. The laundry room with a commercial washer and dryer, the sheets and towels, the kitchen with the communal walk-in cooler, with shelves partitioned off by room number, most of the 100's empty, but the 200's through 600's with all kinds of food, all labeled with names and what turned out to be pull dates, big old commercial range with eight burners, pots and pans, and all sorts of other kitchen stuff. "We don't do any restaurant business anymore, but those who live here have kitchen privileges provided they don't abuse them."
Finally, he showed me the desk, where I would preside, how to respond to a buzz from the buzzer to let someone in, be it an inhabitant who lost his or her key, a worker, the regulars had keys, the "once in a whiles" did not, the clients who mostly did not have keys, and, the cops, who knew what was going on, but who had to keep up appearances to make the neighbors happy. When a cop showed up, he, rarely a she, would buzz, the desk would hit an internal buzzer three times to warn those inside, who would then do whatever they needed to do to not appear as prostitute and client. Then buzz the cops in, let them explore the open areas, and they would be gone, having found no evidence of prostitution.
It was getting late, my Mom would be expecting me home, so I agreed to show up on Saturday for my first shift.