Nifty entertains us all, gets us hard, sometimes gets us off, so contribute to it, stories or cash or both!
You can start here, or with Jason's story, or with Lexington's, or with Ian's not yet submitted, but written - think The Alexandria Quartet, but at a much lower literary level. They are parallel to some extent, and all involve the protagonist selling his body for money as a part of who they were.
Chris' Story -- Part 1
My name is Chris. When this story begins, I was 18, home for the first summer since I was 8, my parents, who were well off, sent me to camp, all summer, and, when I got to be of high school age, to a private boarding school, in the second rank of New England boarding schools, which meant, that, although some graduates went to Ivy League colleges, most did not, me included. I was admitted to the state college near my home town, and after having spent most of my recent life in dorm or camp situations, was ready to try living home, and hanging out with "regular guys" and not just the rich white ones.
I could tell you all about all the sex I had in summer camps, and in prep school, but that is about the same for everyone, so I will skip over that part of my life, at least for now, and concentrate on my life at 18 and 19, since that is more interesting, at least to me.
I did not want for money, my parents were very well off. I had the use of any of the cars they were not using, but mostly drove the Jeep Cherokee.
I was horny. The guy, Lex, who did our patio was hot, but he was partnered, and not readily available. His partner was hot as well, we had a few three-ways, but I wanted more variety. My parents were gone most of the time, on business or pleasure, and I was alone. I was bored. I knew when school started things would improve, but it was June. And June was dragging.
Out on the old highway, parallel to the interstate, was B.J.'s Roadhouse, Bar and Grill, and Trucker's Rest. It was a good place to go for your basic American meal, hamburgers, BLTs, prime rib on Thursday nights, fish fry on Friday, pot roast on Sunday, and always deep-fried chicken, French fries, milk shakes, and pie.
The dining room was separated from the bar by a partition with two usually open doors, the bar had two registers, one for the food, the other for the Trucker's Rest, which was a very old Trucker hotel/motel, the rooms had a sink and a toilet, the showers were down the hall, and gang showers, into which you put a token for five minutes of hot water. Rooms rented in four-hour increments, all had the old double beds, a dresser, a desk, a chair, some had two chairs, a TV, a Bible, and that was about all. There was no room service. There was an ice machine and a vending machine for soft drinks in the downstairs hallway.
Behind the building was parking for tractor trailers, the old gas and diesel pumps were gone, so for truckers on the interstate it was a place to eat and sleep and that was all.
It was also a place to hook up, for pay or for free. There were a few regular whores, female, that hung out there, and for a fee would do you in a room, or, in your truck. There were a few women who were just looking for sex. And a few who were looking for a husband. Most of the guys were not the marrying kind. Good luck!
I started hanging out there in the evenings, drinking just enough to make the bartender, Zeke, happy, even though I was 18, serving underage guys was the least of the illegal stuff going on. There was one bookie who took bets on all sorts of things, none on credit.
Zeke owned and managed the place. His parents had run it for many years, his mother had cooked, he had managed it all. His father had died, just about the time the Interstate opened, and bypassed it, and his mother was ready to retire. Zeke was in the Navy, as a cook, ten years in, so when his enlistment was up, he came home to run the place. It needed to adapt to the changed circumstances, gas and diesel tanks had to be taken out for pollution regulations, it was no longer an easy stop off the state highway. Zeke's mother had always made pies, the place was, in the past, and still in the present, famous for the homemade pies, there were always at least 7 varieties available by the slice, and, on order, whole pies. Thanksgiving week was the big pie week, pumpkin, apple, and mince were prime, they made several hundred to go. Zeke's mother still came in, in the mornings, three days a week, to make pies, and every day the week of Thanksgiving and Christmas to make pie after pie.
The dining room closed at 8:30. The bar stayed open till 1 am. The bar side had a limited menu, breakfast, and "lunch". In his parent's days, it had been open 24/7. "We never close" was the motto, on the big billboard out front, "We never clean" was written under it in Magic Marker, but all knew that was not true. They did close for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and they did clean rigorously.
The bookie, the whores and the old faggots did not usually show up until after 9, except a few, like me, who thought the food was good, and it was reasonable.
Tired of cooking for myself, and, as important, eating my myself, I would show up at 8, eat, sometimes sitting with the "regulars", a mixed lot to be sure, and then move over to the bar section and hang out. I quickly became a regular, knew everyone's name, like Cheers, and what they were there for -- companionship, sex, the booze, a husband - some goals attainable, some not. Zeke, the bartender, was like the ringmaster at a circus, with three rings going all at once. Once he got my story he helped set me up. He could tell I was not from the lower classes, I think he looked up my parents and knew how well off they were. I told him that they expected me to learn how to be financially responsible. I told him I had a job as a lifeguard and swim coach at the local posh country club, from 11 am to 6 pm. I told him I was bi, had had a lot of experience with guys my age, and some with older guys, like teachers and coaches, did not tell, and was ok with gay for pay, and in fact, liked it, it paid a lot better than being a lifeguard, and most of the time, was more fun.
I just watched the action the first night I was there, the bartender got my story out of me, and, when I had shown up three nights in a row, he told me the house rules.
Bar sales, and what little food they had after 8:30, was rung up at the food register, all the other stuff at the Trucker register, which included the following: a room in 4 hour increments, at that time $29, it came with two shower tickets; additional shower tickets $2 each; condoms and lube varied; extra towels, $2 each, pay in advance. Generally, no checks, credit cards OK, but, for a few known people, checks were OK. Typically, the client paid for the room and the extras, and if the client was paying the whore, male or female, that was between them. Sometimes the client or the whore would tip the bartender, and for the mostly guys hooking up for fun, one of them would tip the bartender as well.
I was approached by one of the old (by my standards then, probably 32) whores, Betty, I told her I liked women and men, but was not into paying for it. She told her co-workers, as it were, and we ended up being friends. When there were no prospects for her, or for me, we just chatted about our lives. Betty had had a tough life, and still did. She dropped out of school at 14, had no skills, at least none that paid well, had a day job in a store, but made a lot more an hour selling her personal services. She told me the going rates, and, thought, if I were going to sell it, I ought to match them. Price fixing among the whores!
Later the third night I was approached by a guy in his 40's, lean, greying hair, not a gym rat, but not bad, a little paunch, or beer belly if you prefer, well dressed.
"Hi," he said, "I haven't seen you here before."
"I have not been on this side of the wall, at this time of night, much -- I've eaten at the restaurant for years."
"Well, welcome. Zeke says you are bi, and available for a price."
"He could be right. Depends on what you are looking for."
"Mostly a guy in good shape that will let me blow him, and who will fuck me."
"That is me." We talked the going rate, agreed on an hour, agreed on a room, not his car, agreed on extra towels, he had condoms and lube, he had cleaned out his ass before he came, he lived about 15 miles down the interstate, was married, on the DL, bi, and once in a while, when the wife and kids were gone, would go to B.J.'s to "satisfy his itch".
We went to room 112 (there were 20 rooms on a floor, the first numeral meant first floor), he wanted to strip me, which he did, he started to suck my cock, then took his out, and played with his as he sucked on mine, he gave an acceptable blow job for a married guy. He then took out the condoms from his pocket, and the lube, stripped, he was very hard, a very pink cock, cut, small balls, very smooth, almost no chest hair, but a dark 5 o'clock shadow, and, when he bent over the bed, a smooth ass, and smooth ass crack. And, a nice pink hole.
"Fuck me, fuck me," he said, and I put my cock to him, and, surprisingly, it went right in. No fingering to prep it, no ass licking (which I do not like to do, and which costs extra, a lot extra) and he came in about five minutes.
"Done," he said, "time to go, need to be home in case the wife calls. No time to shower, you do what you want."
So, I showered, and went back to the bar. Easiest money I ever made. I didn't cum, he didn't care, and so I was ready for another round.