Summer of Sex with Cowboy

MY SUMMER OF SEX WITH COWBOY

Chapter 17

by Donny Mumford

Tomorrow, Sunday could be a perfect day. That's what it looks like after Bruce, and I made today a successful one by fooling Richard. So, a successful day followed by a perfect one. That sounds promising, although I don't remember much about fooling Richard. The drug and the paddling had me in la-la land. Driving back to the hotel, I'm still not feeling very well. Bruce did do everything he could think of to help me recover. I slept a few hours, and then he drove me around with the top down; then we had dinner, and he offered to lie in bed naked with me too. All I wanted to do was get back to the suite and wait for the drug to run its course and let my ass heal.

Driving is no problem, and now, parking at the hotel, I put the top up, lock the car and go directly to my suite. Walking around, I'm not sure what the best thing to do is. We had some drinks before dinner, and I'd normally have something to drink now, except I don't feel normal. I take off the dog collage, which is the only sex apparatus I have on me tonight, and get out of my clothes to take a shower. After that, I spread some disinfectant cream on my ass, put on boxer shorts and my dog collar, turn out the light, and I'm in bed at ten after ten.

Nine hours later, I wake up and see how I feel. Hmm, my butt is still sore, although not enough to be a problem. That's good, but I don't feel normal yet, which isn't good and could be a problem. Jesus, I'm glad it was only 25 mg of that drug and not the 50 mg pill. Anyway, I do remember now... Bruce inferred that Richard had already made up his mind we'd be continuing together before we even got there. In other words, the paddling and drug weren't necessary and played no part in Richard's decision. Yeah, the same way the extra paddling wasn't needed last week. Swell.

It would be logical for me to blame Bruce for panicking and doing extra paddling and resorting to that terrible drug, but I don't blame him. I blame Richard because he intimidates his mentors, knowing they will overdo discipline to try getting his approval for whatever. Then Richard nefariously implies none of the extra disciplines was necessary. That makes him look like the good guy, leaving the mentor as the bad guy.

Richard likes to play mind games using all the psychological shit he learned while earning two degrees in that science. Well, some don't believe it's a science, but I'm not sure what else it's called, and I don't care anyway. Plus, Richard's stepdad and his evil mentoring manual were in play too.

And, why am I dwelling on this? There will be no more involvement with Richard, so I need to forget about him. I really need to get out of this entire charade altogether, but that fucks Bruce up if I do. He's the innocent victim here. Richard and I are the bad guys. Goddammit, I've dug a hole for myself, and I can't get out of it without fucking over Bruce, who is the last person who deserves to be fucked over. He's doing his job, as smarmy a job as it is, but he's trying to fulfill the ludicrous training requirements while avoiding as much of the manual's requirements as he can in an attempt to make it as easy on me. Even so, Bruce's abbreviated so-called training borders on BDSM. Borders on it? Fuck that; it's right in the middle of it.

Whatever, I don't have it in me to screw over Bruce more than I already have. I'll finish the three weeks, supposedly easy weeks, then figure something out about faking New York for a week or do something. I don't 'effing know what, but I'll think of something!

And, Christ, when was the last time I got up at seven o'clock in the morning? What do people do who get up this early? Oh fuck, I guess they get ready to go to work. Most don't on Sunday, though. If my ass weren't sore, I'd go for a run or work out at the fitness center. Frustrated, I'm muttering curses to myself as I go into the bathroom to do what I need to in there, including a close shave of my skimpy beard. Then, what else? I'll get some coffee and maybe a scrambled egg.

I like the hotel's cafe because it smells like coffee and bacon when you walk in. The middle-aged waitress I've been over-tipping this week comes hustling over to pour me a cup of coffee without asking. She smiles brightly, asking, "How are we doing this morning?" I go, "I can only speak for me, and on a scale of 1 to 10, I'm a six. How about you?" She smiles brightly again, saying, "I'm always a ten. Hey, your brother hasn't been with you lately. Is he okay?" Not wanting to explain that Cowboy is not my brother, I go, "He's been staying with a friend. He's fine."

She places a menu in front of me, "Take your time, Hun. I'll be back to take your order in a minute or two." I feel all males are 'Hun' to Trisha, which is the name on the little nameplate she wears on the shoulder of her spiffy uniform. With my second cup of coffee, I order scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. After breakfast, I touch my dog collar and smile, thinking about lying naked with my mentor, sucking and licking his slim hot body, and then, maybe, making out and getting a slow boyfriend-like fuck. Yeah, that's what he promised if we fooled Richard, which we most definitely did. Well, as it turns out, we didn't need to, but that's us playing the part of fools in Richard's mind game.

I call American Express to pay my overdue bill, reading off my New York checking account's routing number and account number. Then sit back at the desk trying to think what other responsible financial matter I should take care of, and I can't come up with one. I still have nine thousand dollars in cash in the BMW's trunk and pay for almost everything with the AMEX card anyway. So, I think I'm good except for texting Cowboy to see if he needs money.

He texts back that he still has plenty of cash from the four hundred I gave him earlier this week, plus he, Lee, and Lee's friend are driving to Wildwood to check out the boardwalk there. Another normal thing a teenager would do in the summer after graduating high school. That, of course, makes me think of my other nineteen-year-old, who never does anything normal for his age, including not graduating high school. Yeah, Bruce isn't normal, but then what I'm doing isn't normal either, so we're equal in our abnormality.

Needing some fresh air, but before going outside, I do a few things in the bathroom, including brushing my teeth and gargling with mouthwash again. Yes, I want to have fresh breath for, as Bruce said, maybe some making out as my reward for being a good boy. On the boardwalk, walking slowly, I can't shake an exasperating feeling of being irritated and on edge, like I want to scream or something. It has to be a hangover effect from the drug because I never feel like this. Other than that, though, nine hours of sleep and breakfast have me feeling okay.

There's something special about being near the ocean, the squawking seagulls, the ocean breeze, and the scent of the sea. Invigorating, plus I'm getting anxious to commiserate with Bruce about our triumph over the tyrant and then take him up on our naked date with his bed. This could be a turning point for us because Bruce has been showing signs lately that he may be having similar feelings for me that I have for him, so maybe...

Then my cell phone pings in my pocket. Another text from Cowboy? Fumbling the cell phone out of the pocket of my cargo shorts, I glance at it, saying out loud, "What the fuck?" The woman part of an old couple walking by me says, "Watch your mouth, young man. You're out in public?" Looking over, I mumble, "Sorry," while thinking, 'Go fuck yourself, you old bag.' The text is from Richard. It says, 'New plans! Be at lockerroom office ten sharp!'

Rereading it, it says the same thing. Leaning against the boardwalk railing on the ocean side, coincidentally the same place Richard and I were at that first night over three weeks ago, I try to make sense of his text. There is no sense to it, so I call Bruce and get his answering message telling me how my call is important and blah, blah, blah. Looking around, I see the locker room down a half block from where I'm standing, and a weird feeling in my gut tells me something is very wrong. Calling Bruce again, I get the same message.

Touching my dog collar, I start walking again but away from the locker room, trying to think what I should do. It's nine-twenty, and until now, I was excited about this morning's prospects. What could have happened? Forcing myself to wait ten minutes before calling Bruce again, I call and get the same answering message.

I was looking at my phone, thinking maybe I missed a text message from Bruce, but no, there's no text. Then I see Eli's number and hit the button on my phone. My balls shriveling up tightly because this couldn't be a good development. Eli doesn't answer until the seventh ring, and then he says, "I wasn't going to answer your call, Zach, but you're not the one up shit's creek, so I won't get in trouble talking to you."

I'm like, "Well, thanks, Eli, but, um, who is in trouble?" Of course, I know who, and he confirms it, saying, "Bruce fucked himself up good. I heard about it last night from Kyle McDermont, who was working the counter." I don't know Kyle-whatshisname, but that doesn't matter, so I'm like, "What happened?" He goes, "First of all, to be safe, you and I never talked about this, okay?" Nodding my head, not that he can see me, I go, "Yes, sure, of course. Please, tell me what happened?"

I'm getting pissed off, royally pissed off, and I still don't know why, but it's that fucker Richard I know that much. Eli says, "I don't know the details, but after you and Bruce left Richard yesterday afternoon, Richard was cool about everything. Then later that night, Bruce sent a video he'd forgotten to send earlier, and it was insulting or some such shit. Richard went nuclear, ranting a raving in his office. Kyle heard him through the door, telling Bo and Snorkle to drag Bruce's ass down to the office. Kyle says Bruce was kind of, um, hysterical himself."

I'm nodding my head again, getting enraged, and I still don't know why, but I was right; it's Richard behind this. Eli is saying something as a hot flash soars through me, and I remember... the video was on when it should have been off and off when it should have been on. Oh, fuck! Bruce was calling Richard a tyrant, and I forget what else, but he was mocking him.

I'm like, "What was that, Eli?" He goes, "I was just saying, Bruce had the choice of being, um, fired and thrown out of the pussy boys or accepting his punishment." Punishment? I go, "What's the punishment?" He says, "It's in the manual. Fifteen paddling whacks and a few months at one of the meat farms, A reeducation center where he'll be doing blow jobs for ten hours a day, and, um, whatever else for free. He took the punishment, and Kyle said he could hear the paddle hitting Bruce's ass and his screams coming from the office, but he didn't see them taking Bruce out because his..." but I'm not listening because a rage, a fury has my blood pressure soaring and I can't think straight.

Of course, Bruce took the punishment. What else does he have except the pussy boys' organization? What would he do if not this pussy boy horseshit? He's a kid with no options. He put all his eggs in this pussy boy basket. I mumble, "Where is Bruce now?" Eli goes, "I don't know. As I said, he's probably at one of the farms. Hey, didn't they tell you anything?" I mutter, "Um, I don't know, ah, I mean no. Thanks, Eli," and he starts to say something, but I end the call.

Anger is a toxic and negative emotion, so that's not normally helpful in any situation. Extreme anger, such as I'm feeling now, is much worst. It means a loss of self-control, leading to terrible results. The thing is, extreme anger means you don't give a fuck about that. Plus, my extremely increased blood pressure makes it hard to think as I storm back down the boardwalk to the locker room. Yes, that's right, Richard, I'm coming a few minutes early for my meeting; I hope you don't mind.

Ronny had always been the one with a bad temper, and it got us in some tough spots occasionally, and now I know how he felt when his temper got the best of him. There's a rage inside me, so I'm not polite bumping some customers who are walking out of the locker room in their swimsuits expecting to enjoy a nice day on the beach. I knocked down two such people as I'm going in the front door. All I see is red in my vision, and everything else is blurry.

When I slam open Richard's office door, he looks blurry too. So does his stooge, who's supposedly his recruit but who acts like Richard's flunky. The flunky steps back as Richard's shouting, "Who the fuck do you think..." but I reach over the desk and grab the front of his shirt with both hands, lifting him out of his executive chair, then pulling him over the desktop dragging everything on it onto the floor. The flunky goes, "Omigod," and runs from the room.

With Richard sprawled flat on his back on the floor, me still holding him by his shirt, I can hardly talk. I'm so out of control, enraged, but I manage to mutter, "Where is he?" Richard, probably sensing his life is probably not actually in danger, defiantly shouts, "None of your fucking business, asshole, and how are you going to like being in jail." I lift him off the floor and bang him back down on it, then smack his face. He covers his head with both arms, so I punch his side, making him yelp and drop his arms to his side, so I smack his face again, cutting his lip.

He starts yelling, "HELP! CALL THE POLICE!" I go, "You better tell these dummies not to call the cops, or I'll blow your locker room business up telling the cops it's a cover for your slave whoring business. Your step-daddy won't be pleased when the cops trace the business to him."

My red vision is fading as Richard looks startled, realizing the truth of what I said. He goes, "Oh, no," and I drag him up, blood running down his chin and, with my hand gripping the back of his neck as hard as I can squeeze it, Richard hunching his shoulders, grunts, "OW!" I push him to the door. He opens it and says, "Um, guys, we've worked out our differences; it all good. Get back to work." The counter guy had the phone in his hand, looks confused seeing the blood, but puts the phone away.

Dragging Richard around is easy because he's small. Back in the office, I ask again, "Where is he?" Richard mumbles, "New York." Defiant again, he goes, "It was his choice, dipshit," and I smack him again. He spits at me, so apparently, I haven't broken his spirit, and by now, I've lost interest in him anyway. Letting go of him, I turn and walk out with adrenaline soaring through my blood, making me feel sick to my stomach.

I gag and then throw up the scrambled eggs, bacon, and stomach bile going down the ramp off the boardwalk. Dizzy and nauseous, I stagger back to the hotel without a clue what to do now. Obviously, I got a thrill from smacking Richard around, but I also feel stupid and out of control. My heart is still beating too hard and, in the air-conditioned hotel lobby, I need to stop and catch my breath.

Rubbing my face, I see I'm standing next to the convenience shop selling way overpriced items their guest may have forgotten to bring with them on vacation. Breathing steadily now, I go in and buy a pack of Marlboro and a lighter. I don't think Bruce would mind since I'm not a pussy boy anymore.

Going up the elevator, I'm with a very old woman who looks at me and asks, "Are you alright, young man?" Clutching my cigarettes and lighter in my hand, I realize I'm shaking but manage a forced smile, saying, "Yes, I'm fine, but thanks for asking." The elevator stops at her floor, and she says, "You're white as a ghost," and gets off. What is it with old ladies and me this morning?

Staggering into my suite, I go out to the balcony and open the box of Marlboro Lights. I take a deep drag after lighting a cigarette, then scrunch up my face as if I'm going to cry thinking about poor Bruce, but I don't cry. I also stop taking those ridiculous deep drags on my cigarette. Then touching my sex shop leather dog collar again, I try thinking what to do next.

Well, obviously, I'm going to save Bruce, and then, I don't know what. Well, maybe set him up in that business; as he said, I could set myself up after four years of whoring. How much could it cost to get him into a small business? I don't know, but I'll buy some shop or something and say we're partners, so he won't think it's charity.

I'm a world-class pipe-dreamer, but why wouldn't that work? Seriously. Yeah, well, first, I need to get him out of the meat farm he's at. Hmm, I should have made Richard tell me the address, but I think I pushed him as far as he would go. Richard wasn't exactly cowering once he realized slapping him was all I was willing to do. Omigod, though, Ronny would have twisted Richard's arm until he told him the address or his arm broke... except Ronny's dead.

Christ, I feel like shit. Flicking the cigarette butt over the balcony railing, I go inside and lie on the couch. I still can't think straight, but I do realize one thing... except for saving Bruce, I've got nothing to do now. When someone tells me what to do, I always have something to do, and I like that.

It takes an hour lying on the couch before I have enough energy to get up. It's eleven-thirty, and I'm itching to do something useful. Out on the balcony again, I'm smoking and thinking. Then it occurs to me that Pussy boys have an online business, so they need to advertise online. Going inside, I get my laptop and Google Pussy Boys New York City. There's an ad for male escorts age eighteen and up, plus blah, blah, blah, and about an escort for every taste. Huh.

I don't want to call the number using my cell phone because they'd have my phone number if I did that. The hotel's landline could be traced back to me too. Hmm, what would Ronny do? Well, duh, he'd buy a burner phone that can't be traced, obviously. Feeling good about doing something, I go out and drive to a Target store I saw when going for the HIV test. No questions, no name given, no problem. I buy two phones with sixty minutes usage on both and pay with cash. I'm a regular James-fucking-Bond... or, even better, a friggin' private eye.

I get a Rolling Rock beer; then, I call the New York pussy boy number on my new burner phone, which works fine. A chipper, young-sounding guy answers, and I tell him I'm new to this and how does it work? He tells me it's explained in full on their website, but he'll be glad to try helping me if I have a specific question. As he talks, it occurs to me I didn't bother perusing the site; I just saw the phone number and called it. Also, obviously, this is their regular online site, not the meat farm or whatever it's called.

Hmm, so I tell him a friend discreetly told me about a, um, a farm or something where one could, ah, sort of wander around and have a choice of entertainment. He tells me he has no idea what I'm referring to, then says, "Have a nice day," and hangs up. Why does everything need to be so fucking hard?

Okay, I need to think rationally. I try that for a few minutes. The only idea I came up with is getting one of the fifteen dollar joints I bought from Bruce's friend; um... was it Bret? What difference does it make what his name is? I light up a joint to see if I get some inspiration about what I should do. Getting high works for some people that way. I'm sure I read that somewhere.

Instead of getting an idea of what I should do, I forget all about it and, instead, inhale this drug and try figuring out what the clouds above are trying to tell me. I'm sure they're spelling out New York City, sort of. Omigod, this marijuana rocks! What a great high. I fantasize busting into that disgusting gay factory, or was it a farm? Anyway, I knock people over and tell Bruce to stay behind me as I do a superhero exit from, um... Yeah, but what superhero would get involved with a gay male brothel farm or, um, what was the other thing... a factory?

I doze off on the balcony's chaise lounge, the roach of the joint lying right next to this excellent piece of outside furniture on which a less than excellent species of the human race is lying. Groaning, I rub my face and try thinking what happened. Oh yeah, that's right, I smoked a primo joint and got fucked up. Strong shit. And yeah, the whole thing myself while the other night, it was shared by the three of us.

Yeah, well, whatever. I stagger out of the chaise lounge and go inside to get a beer from the little refrigerator and then look at the cost chart on the little refrigerator's door. Each of these little seven-ounce pony bottles of Rolling Rock is eight dollars. Swell.

I sit at the desk and bring up my laptop to Bing, the marijuana still percolating in my brain. Swallowing some beer, I try thinking what it is Ronny would do in this situation. Well, he wouldn't leave a trail back to us, which using my credit card would do. Hmm, if I'm going to deal with that pussy boy organization in New York, I'll need a credit card, but not mine. That's as obvious as not using my cell phone was obvious.

My brain is still fuzzy as I use my personal cell phone to call American Express again and tell the officious man on the other end of the line I want three one thousand dollars prepaid American Express debit cards that need to be FED EX'd overnight to my hotel. The AMEX answering person tells me the highest they issue debit cards are five hundred dollar ones. I tell him I want to speak to his supervisor or whatever the title is for the person who's his 'effing boss. He tells me there's no need to be offensive, and I tell him to put the fucker on the line now, adding, "I'm a black card AMEX customer, you toad!"

Oh, Christ, the pot has turned me into an arrogant bully. Or am I trying to be Ronny? Whatever, it works because I get transferred to a much more obsequious person who says, "Oh, we've connected your phone number with your account, Mr. McMann. You do have the option to call directly to black card American Express customer service. Of course, you can go through regular American Express service as well. How can we help you today?"

Rubbing my face again, trying to get it together, I say. "Oh, I didn't know, um, but never mind that. What I need are one-thousand dollar prepaid debit cards." He goes, "Of course. How many would you like?" I go, "Oh, just like that, huh? The other guy, um, well, I want three for now, and I need them overnighted to my hotel by ten o'clock tomorrow morning." He says, "You'll have them by then. Is there anything else I can help you with today?" I mumble, "No, thank you, you've been accommodating," and I hit the end button cutting him off.

Oh fuck, I'm still dizzy. I get another eight dollars Rolling Rock beer and go back out on the balcony to think what I should do next. Well, I need to text Cowboy telling him we're going to New York City. Um, I'll tell him I need to deal with some business shit for a couple of days, and I want him coming with me. He can stop in and say 'Hi' to his parents. His mother will see he's fine and she can relax about him traveling with me. Oh, jeez, Cowboy's new haircut, though! Ha-ha, holy shit, that'll be a shock to his parents; a pleasant one probably.

I text him, but Cowboy is too invested in whatever he's doing with his new friends in Wildwood to text me back, but that's okay. He'll get around to it eventually. For now, I need to have a plan for what to do when I get to NYC. Hmm, I try thinking about that for a while and decide it's been too stressful today, so I smoke another joint and fantasize about rescuing Bruce. Much later, in a daze, I'm lying on the chaise lounge, wondering what happened to the daylight.

Feeling like shit, I get up and see my cell phone on the balcony floor with a text message. Picking up the phone, I notice it's seven-thirty. Huh? What the fuck? Anyway, the text is from Cowboy sent three hours ago. This means I've been out of it for almost four hours, or... I don't how long. Squinting, I read his text. 'Awesome, Zach! Can Lee come too?'

I stagger into the suite, walk through to the bathroom and turn on the shower. After taking my clothes off, I stand under the flow of fairly cold water for a long time before bringing more hot water into the mix and washing with lots of this hotel's excellent France bath gel, without thinking about anything. After drying, I walk out of the bathroom naked, and there are Cowboy and Lee.

Lee goes, "Oh, wow," and Cowboy goes, "Can Lee go to New York with us?" Walking past them to the closest bedroom, I mumble, "Nice to see you two, and of course, Lee can come with us. It'll only be for two or three. days." Cowboy yells at my back, "We'll stay at the Waldorf Hotel again, right, Zach?"

Because it's convenient, we eat at the hotel's restaurant as Lee assures me he can go where he wants, and his parents are okay with that. He says, "I'm nineteen, Zach, a high school graduate who's going to college in the fall. I look and maybe act like a kid, but I'm out in the world as an adult according to the law." Cowboy mutters, "You're not exactly, um, out, in every sense of the word." Lee snickers and goes, "No, not yet, but meeting you, has accelerated that process enormously. I'm to the point now where I'm considering breaking the news to my parents just before leaving for college."

His parents will probably blame Cowboy for turning their son into a homosexual, but I keep that thought to myself. I've got other things on my mind. After dinner, the boys go back to Lee's house to continue their addiction to Fortnite, an online video game. Ronny kept him and me too busy with real life for either of us to have the time to get addicted to video games. I'm not sure if that was a good thing or if I've missed out on something. Over dessert, I told the guys we're leaving tomorrow morning, so Lee needs to pack for the trip and Cowboy too. They were both like... yeah, absolutely, no problem. The trip is a lark to them, and I wish I could say the same.

On the positive side of things, by now, I'm not noticing after-effects from the drug I took yesterday. I guess the marijuana, the beers, the long nap, and dinner overwhelmed whatever lasting effects the drug had in my system. That's one less thing to worry about. In the hotel suite, I make a reservation for three nights at the Waldorf for a suite with two bedrooms and a connecting living room in between.

That done, I stay in for the night, writing down possible scenarios for finding Bruce and what we'll do then. After an hour, I realize I'm just wasting time as I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I crumble the pages I've been writing on and dump them in the trash.

Sitting back sighing, I decide I'll drive, of course. New York City is only about 120 miles from Atlantic City, a two-hour drive. It would take longer to fly. Checking with the hotel's desk here, I confirm we have our suite at this hotel for another eight days. Okay, so I still need a plan for NYC. Never having used a prostitute in my life makes it a challenge as I don't even know how to begin. Where do runaways, boys or girls, hang out to sell themselves when they realize they've got no other viable options?

Well, I'll Google runaway kids. When I say Google, I actually mean Bing. Bing is the search engine I use because Google accumulates data on me with every search, and I don't think Bing does that. And, I'm not sure why I care one way or another, but it's what Ronny told me, and so I use Bing. Google has become the generic word for Internet searching. Or, maybe I'm wrong about that, but who cares? Jesus, I easily get off track.

Anyway, I discover that there are places in NYC where homeless runaways can shelter. Organizations specifically for kids, and then there are other organizations for homeless adults. One of the ones for kids is called The Door. Yeah, but why do I care about this? Bruce isn't homeless, and it's a ridiculous longshot I'd find a ex-pussy boy from the meat farm or meat factory, whatever they call it, who could tell me where it is.

That seems impossibly unlikely. Then, looking at my cell phone, I see it's ten o'clock and realize I'm itching to have sex. Bruce and I didn't have sex yesterday and, obviously, I haven't had sex today. That shouldn't be a problem, except after being fucked three times a day for three weeks and then going two days without it, it does appear to be a problem. Holy shit, that's part of that evil mentoring manual's intention. Get their pussy boys craving sex. Devious bastards.

It's even more effective with me because I was also fucking Cowboy. Goddammit, why does he have to sleep at Lee's house? No, that is so unfair of me. I could try a bar, but there is no way I can go out and pick up some guy at a bar in my present frame of mind. I don't even want that. I want Bruce!

Hmm, going back to thinking about a plan, bus terminals would probably be a place runaways hang out at, but so what? That's the same unlikely scenario as checking places like The Door hoping to find an ex-pussy boy. My best shot is hiring a pussy boy from their escort site and seeing if he knows where the place is that Richard sends guys who need reeducating. And this isn't China! That where so-called reeducating is a thing.

It's not China, but Richard is half Japanese. Well, so what? He's half American too, and Japanese aren't Chinese, and even if Richard was Chinese, or whatever, it doesn't change a damn thing. Gawd, I can't think straight.

I go to bed at ten-thirty, have a fitful night sleeping, and then give it up and get out of bed at six o'clock. Good God, I got up yesterday at seven o'clock and this morning at six. Will I get up tomorrow at five o'clock?

I make up a bag for the hotel laundry service; I then throw some clothes in a satchel for the trip. Then, after doing what I need to in the bathroom, I'm ready to leave by seven o'clock, but I've got no place to go. Plus, even if I did, I need to wait for the prepaid AMEX cards. Hell, Cowboy and Lee probably aren't even up yet. Pacing and smoking on the balcony for an hour, I go to the cafe and have breakfast. Then smoke outside trying to think positively but, instead, think about how much I miss the jockstrap and butt plug and what comes with those items. That's not positive thinking!

To do something constructive, I drive the car to a gas station and fill the tank. When I'm back and parking at the hotel, I see the back of Lee walking into the hotel carrying a soft-sided suitcase. Okay, he's ready to go. The boys are in the cafe, so I join them and have another cup of coffee. They've got a list of things they want to do in the city, but one of them isn't seeing Cowboy's parents. Well, I'm not his parent, so whatever he decides is okay with me. I've got my own agenda.

Cowboy says, "I'm getting money from my bank account to pay you back for everything, Zach, and getting a new debit card replacement for the one I lost." Although I don't care if he pays me back or not, I'm not going to argue about it and, after they finish with breakfast, I smoke a cigarette outside, pacing around waiting for Cowboy to pack some clothes.

The prepaid AMEX cards are delivered at ten of ten, and at ten-fifteen, we're on our way. The traffic sucks, so we don't get to the Waldorf until quarter to one. A guy takes the car to park it in the hotel underground parking lot. We'll use taxis during the couple of days we're here. After lunch, the guys go off to do the first thing on their list, and I go up to the room. The guys want to see a Broadway show tonight, so I call the concierge and pay $300 a ticket for two seats at The Book of Mormon production. That takes care of the guys. They'll be out this afternoon, pick up the tickets at the concierge desk, then have dinner and see the show.

As for me, I call the online pussy boy site, and after some haggling, I get a date in my hotel room for four o'clock with an escort I chose from pictures online. I chose a young guy who closely resembles Bruce. It cost $500 for the first hour and $300 an hour after that. I use a prepaid AMEX card to complete the transaction.

Then, lying on the bed, I wonder why it matters that the escort resembles Bruce? I'm not having sex with the prostitute. I'm after information, but, at the same time, I don't want it to seem like that's what I'm after 'cause it might alert someone that I'm, ah... I don't know what. I don't know what I'm doing, actually. My plan boils down to me bumbling along, hoping that somehow I'll find out where this pussy boy meat factory is located. Then, well, I'll figure something out.

After pacing the room for a month, um, I mean for two hours, there's a knock on my hotel room door. Oh boy, my first experience with a male escort/prostitute. I open the door that leads into the living room portion of our suite, and a nice-looking kid of about twenty is standing there looking smug. He says, "Hello, are you, Tom Jones?" I go, "Yeah, sure, c'mon in." I didn't use my real name, obviously.

Almost immediately, anyone would quickly suspect this guy is gay from his body language. What I couldn't see from his picture was that he's kind of, um, swishy. He has a bit of a lisp in his voice, too, as he says, "Well, hi, there. My name is Gregory, and it looks like my lucky day having a date with a hunky guy like you. Ah, that is... well, you aren't a policeman, are you?" I mumble, "Fuck, no. Do you want a drink?"

He has the pussy boy clean-cut look, although his light brown hair, while maybe two months ago was cut like mine, is now way overdue for a haircut. Other than that, he's clean-shaven, neatly dressed in khaki shorts and a white polo-type shirt which is the same outfit Bruce and I wore to see Richard last Saturday afternoon before the shit hit the fan.

Gregory is slim and maybe an inch under six feet tall. As he walks past me, he doesn't look like Bruce now that I see him in person, but what does that matter anyway? I don't know why I tried to find someone resembling Bruce in the first place. To my question, does he want a drink? He says, "Sure if you're having one," and he sits down on one of the armchairs as comfortable and relaxed as can be. More so than me.

Forcing a confident expression, I go, "Am I supposed to guess what you'd like to drink?" He has earrings in both ears, but no other piercings and no tattoos I can see. He's attractive and slightly arrogant, saying, "Whatever you're having, I'm sure will be fine. Thank you." Fuck this! I say, "Well, how about if you get up off your ass and look in the refrigerator to see what's in there." He grins and says, "No, you do it." Well, I'll be damned; a touch of submissiveness zips through my balls.

I can't help grinning at the balls on this guy. Shrugging, I mutter, "So, you're a ball buster, huh?" Then go over and open the convenience refrigerator containing exorbitantly overpriced items. Without looking, I take out two one-ounce bottles of the first things my hand touches... Remy Martin XO Cognac. This is the Waldorf, after all, so there are glass glasses available, not plastic ones. I pour the cognac into two glasses and hand him one. He nods his head, and we tap glasses. I sip mine, but Gregory flashes the whole drink down, makes a face, then mumbles, "Smooth as shit, huh?" Christ, isn't he supposed to be trying to please me?

Not sure what I'm supposed to do next, I ask, "So, how do you like your job?" He laughs and goes, "You don't know what to do next, do you?" I shrug again and mumble, "You're right," and he stands, lisping, "Is this your first time with an escort?" I nod, mumbling, "Yes, but there's a first time for everything," and he goes, "How come a hot stud like you needs an escort? That's the first thing I thought when you opened the door."

Taking a bigger sip of the cognac and, short of breath, I say, "I don't know anyone in New York," He comes over very close, lisping, "You could pick up a guy for free in the first gay bar you walked into." Gulping, I go, "But I don't know any gay bars." He makes a face, mumbling, "They're not hard to find online, but enough chit chat. Where do you want me to escort you to?" I'm like, "Ah, I was wondering if you know of a place where I could wander around and check out some dudes in slings or hammocks?" He touches my arm, getting in my personal space, asking, "You mean like a gay sweatshop?" I go to answer, but it catches in my throat at first, then I grunt out, "Ah, yeah, like that."

Gregory says, "Why do you want to do that when I'm right here. You know, pussy boy escorts will kiss if you want us to," and he leans his face over and brushes my lips with his. He's wearing a subtly nice cologne. I've never worn cologne, so I have no idea what it is. I go, "How about that sweatshop?" He shrugs, "Sorry, I don't know one. I can't help you with that, but I'm here, so what escorting would you like me to do?" I mumble, "I'm very interested in that sweatshop."

He makes a 'face,' backs away, murmuring, "You need to relax, Tommy." Smirking at me, he then goes over to the refrigerator and takes out two more little bottles of booze. They're like you get on airplanes. This time it's Makers Mark bourbon. He pours one in his empty glass, lisps, "Go ahead and finish the rest of that cognac," I gulp it down, and he pours the other tiny bottle of bourbon in my glass, saying, "You'll need to loosen up too, that's if we're going to have a good time, Tom Jones." He snickers at that stupid name I came up with, as I say, "Yeah, I guess so," and drink half the bourbon. Gregory says, "Come and sit with me on the sofa. I'll help you through this. After all, you paid five hundred dollars to see me, right?"

I'm sensing that fabulous allure of doing what I'm told, so I sit, and he slides over against my side, then puts his arm across my shoulders, saying, "It cost extra for special favors. Did they tell you that?" I mutter, "No, or, um, I don't know. What special favors?" He says, "Well, a massage is free, but sometimes clients want something more intimate such as... well, such as a sex act of some kind, ha-ha. Yeah, such as that," and he rubs my head lightly the way Bruce used to do it. When I can't think of anything to say, he licks my ear and goes, "That was a freebie."

I sincerely had no intention of having sex with the escort; seriously, I didn't! This was to be a fact-finding mission, nothing more. Gregory says, "Okay, you're shy. Here's what we'll do," and he stands, takes hold of my arm, pulling on it, saying, "C'mon, get up. We'll go to your bedroom, and you'll get out of these clothes. Then I'll give you a really nice free massage. Hurry though because the hour meter is running... tick-tock, tick-tock."

His lisping-lilting way of speaking is kind of charming. Anyway, I get up, and he sort of pulls me, chuckling and saying, "You need someone directing you, doncha?" Surprising myself, I go, "Usually, yeah," and I almost giggle because this is so not what I had in mind. I do not have sex with prostitutes. I keep telling myself that, but why not try it? Gregory is growing on me. In the bedroom, he unbuttons my shorts and pulls them down so I can step out of them. Then he pulls my shirt off over my head and says, "I don't want to frighten you, so for now, we'll leave your undies on."

I mumble, "I'm not frightened," and he snickers, mumbling, "In that case," and then pulls my boxer shorts down. He hesitates when he sees I have no pubic hair and glances at my legs, but only briefly. Without commenting on my hairlessness, which I never thought of, until now, he drops my boxer shorts where he dropped the other clothes, meaning on the floor, then says, "Lie on your stomach," and he smacks my bare ass, adding, "Now, Tommy, on your stomach now." I do that feeling a strong stirring in my cock that feels really sexy and good. Going on day three without sex, I know now that I want sex with this prostitute. My first one ever.

And Gregory knows what he's doing too. The massage is excellent and, within five minutes, I couldn't feel any more relaxed than I do. Without meaning to, I make an audible long sigh, and Gregory, sitting on my ass now, murmurs, "There ya go."

All the tension leaves my body. It's funny, but I didn't even realize I was tense. I surely was, though, as the way I'm feeling now is completely different than I felt five minutes ago. He lifts his leg over my ass, getting on his knees next to me, and says, "Flip over on your back for me now, Tommy." I do that and lying on my back, Gregory sits on my thighs, ignores my privates, and moves my arms over my head. Oh, I'm not kidding; it feels so good letting somebody else deciding what I should do.

After a nice massage of my torso and the front of my shoulder, even my head and face, yeah, my face leaving it tingly. He slides down my legs and over my feet to get on his knees, massaging my feet. Holy shit that feels good! Needless to say, my cock is stiff.

Gregory licks my feet, then looks me in the eyes with a smirk on his face, and takes my dick in his fist. He squeezes it and then strokes it into a full-fledged hard boner, so hard it's sticking straight up. As he was doing that, he slid up so he can sit on my legs again, now wearing only jockey shorts and his shirt. I didn't see when he took his shorts off because my eyes were closed, enjoying his hands rubbing all over my body.

He moves up closer to my hips, saying, "Now comes the questions. Do you want me to suck you off for an extra charge of one hundred dollars, or would you like to suck me off for the same charge or do you want to fuck me for a mere two hundred dollars, or would you prefer me fucking you for the same price; which one or two of those fun and sexy things would you like to experience?"

See, it's another form of dominance the way Gregory has taken charge of everything. Not blatant dominance, a casual non-offensive moving-thing-along taking-charge dominance. Hell, he took charge right from the start, actually, and I haven't felt this good since the last time Bruce told me to suck him off.

As for Gregory's questions, I'd like to do all of those things he mentioned. I gulp when trying to say that as a joke, and he grins, looking down at me, murmuring, "Take your time... it's your dime, so to speak." He gives my boner another stroke, and I manage to say, "Fuck me, Gregory." He says, "Gladly," and gets off me to take a condom from the pocket of his shorts that he threw on a chair.

Dropping his jockey underwear, he strokes his average-length cock, saying, "How do you want this? Maybe doggy style, or on your back... or whatever?" My heart is pumping fast as the thrill of anticipation builds in me until I can hardly speak. I squawk out, "Can you decide for me, Gregory?" He mutters, "How did I know you were going to say that?" I'm encouraging a submissive frame of mine to fully form in my mind, as he goes, "In that case, stay on the bed but turn over, pull your legs up to get on your knees, and drop your head to the pillow."

I do that pushing my ass up the way Bruce insists I do it. Gregory says, "Huh. Well, I see you've been a good submissive bottom for somebody, haven't you?" I say, "Yes, Gregory." Then I look back and say, "Fuck me hard, Gregory." He's still standing at the foot of the bed, just now rolling on the condom, as I realize I just said to Gregory what Cowboy always says to me when we're screwing.

Gregory snorts out a chuckle, hops up on the bed, gets on his knees behind me, mumbling, "Yeah, Tommy, hard is a good way to fuck an ass like yours," then, "C'mon, move your legs further apart, and see if you can get that ass up a little higher. Strain a little; you can do it." Like I do for Bruce, I'm off my knees, pushing up off my toes and a delicious wave of submissiveness flows over me.

Bruce did a helluva job of training me to embrace submissiveness. Gregory's cock is like Eli's in that it's about five inches but heftier than an average penis stretching out the condom. He smacks my ass; of course, he does. "SMACK! SMACK!" and then he asks, "Do you like that?" I say, "Yes, Gregory," and he goes, "From the look of your buttock, you like it a lot," and he spanks me until my ass feels red and hot.

Stopping, he says, "If you want more, it'll cost you extra." His hand is nothing like the paddle, not even in the same universe with the paddle, but he's got my ass stinging and burning a little, so I say, "No, that was good." Then I think, 'What the fuck am I saying? I don't like being spanked. That's Cowboy, not me.'

Gregory mounts me and pushes his boner in hard. The pain is the same as always when my anus gets stretched like this, but I'm used to it and only grunt, "Ahh, ooh..." He asks, "Are you good?" I nod my head against the pillow, mumbling, "Yes, Gregory," and he pushes the rest of his cock inside me and then leans against my smacked ass. The sensations are all painful ones, no pleasure yet, but I'm embracing the pain, knowing it's necessary. Plus, I realize I need to be fucked much more than I thought I did. I need this badly.

He rubs his hands up and down my back, murmuring, "Nice ass, Tommy. You've got a good ass for fucking, but while massaging you, I couldn't help but notice you're as hairless as me, and you've got the same haircut, although yours is much more recently cut than mine. What's up with you?" My rectum has quickly gotten used to his cock; it's been trained to do so, and I'm quivering at the fantastic sensations just beginning to swarm over me. His fat cock feels so good inside my body!

Gregory pulls back his cock and thrusts it back in hard; then he does it again before asking again, "What's your story, Tommy? Are you imitating us pussy boys? Have you been lying to me by pretending you don't know our operation? You've used us many times, always pretending it's your first time, right? It doesn't matter to me except I'm curious." I say, "I'll tell you, Gregory, but please fuck me first." He mutters, "You got a deal, I'll fuck you up good," and he does too.

He knows how to use that fat cock of his by changing the direction of his thrusting slightly. That gets the hard swollen head of his fat cock plowing my rectum, first putting extra pressure on my bowels above, then below, and then to one side of my bowels or the other, every fat thrust stimulating my prostate keeping me in a constant state of intense sexual pleasure like a gay guy dreams about, or I do anyway. I concentrate on every thrust of his fat cock while constantly moaning like a pussy, "Mmm, ooh, yeah, ooh, umm. Yes, ahh..."

My climax roars on me then it stops just at the tipping point. I gasp, then hold my breath, anticipation off the charts. One second, two seconds, then BANG! Like a thunderclap, it explodes, sending cum rushing from my granite boner, my cum making a slushing sound hitting the bedspread. My hips hump as another shot of cum that's been building for three days blows out of my cock, and I moan, "Aahhh," at the pleasure that I can't describe.

Gregory stopped thrusting during my violent orgasm, waiting for me to stop shuddering, I suppose. Then two bonus thrusts, and he pulls his cock out without ever climaxing himself. He gets off the bed and says, "That should do you okay." I get a shiver from the after-effects and stay in position as if I'm waiting to be told it's okay to move. What I'm actually doing is reliving that fuck in my head, trying to remember every second of it.

Meanwhile, Gregory is in the bathroom flushing the condom, I suppose. I hear the toilet flush, so I assume the condom went with it. He wanders back into the bedroom, smacks my ass, asking, "How was that, Tommy? Feel better?"

Well, I'm feeling very well fucked, along with submissiveness toward Gregory zipping around in my head, so I mumble, "Yes, Gregory." He goes, "Well, aren't you going to get off the bed?" I slide my feet down and lie flat, meaning I'm lying in my gooey cum, but I don't care. He laughs and asks, "How's that feel?" as he's putting his jockey shorts on, adding, "You owe me two hundred bucks, plus a tip if you're a gentleman."

Nodding my head, I slide off the bed, mumbling, "Let me clean up a little." He goes, "Of course. Um, I'll help myself to another drink if it's okay with you," and without waiting to find out if it's okay with me, he goes into the living room as cocky as can be. That's okay 'cause tops run the show.

I stagger into the bathroom feeling like the pathetic dork I am, but not really caring about that. Bruce did a helluva job of breaking me down following the manual's instructions. He broke me down into being submissive and obsequious; then he built me up, needing my ass to be fucked, reinforcing my submissiveness to my tops. That's dramatically overstating the situation, perhaps, but it's not too far of an exaggeration.

Washing the cum off my stomach and chest, I then take a piss and wash my face and hands. And, yeah, I should be feeling humiliated at how I acted with Gregory, but I don't. Well, maybe a little, but that fuck he gave me was worth feeling a little humiliated.

Putting on my shorts only, I join Gregory in the living room, where he's sitting with a beer in his hand. He goes, "So, Tommy, what's your story? We've got nine minutes left; then your hour is up." I get a beer and sit on the sofa, saying, "My story, huh? It's more complicated than you can imagine, but the part you'd be interested in is, um. Well, I was a recent recruit, and my mentor got caught saying something negative about the head asshole and was sent to, as you called it, the sweatshop. I want to find him and get him out of there."

He points his beer bottle at me and goes, "You're that guy from Atlantic City? Holy fuck, you gotta be kidding me!" I'm like, "You know about that?" He goes, "The pussy boy network is one big gossip parade. We're queer, and we love to gossip. Yeah, I heard about it yesterday afternoon from the head gossip king, Levy Jordan, my main man. My pimp, I guess some would call him." I go, "So, do you know where the sweatshop is?" He shakes his head, then says, "I don't, no. I can ask around for you, though."

Drinking some beer, I'm thinking, 'I sure as hell ain't no James-fucking-Bond, but maybe being a dork is going to work out just as well.' I go, "Thanks and, um, ha-ha, I wonder if I could see you for another date later tonight?" He finishes his bottle his beer, stands up, and says, "Nope, sorry. I've got a regular customer every Monday night. You can call and reserve me for tomorrow same time. I don't go on duty until two o'clock, but a customer could scoop me up, so to be sure you'll get me, you need to reserve the spot by paying ahead of time, like right after I leave. Now, how about the two hundred bucks and a tip?"

I take out three one-hundred-dollar bills and give them to him. He puts them in his pocket, saying, "I'll try to find out the address, but what the fuck do you think you'll do if you find out where it is?" Shrugging, I mutter, "I'll think of something," and he says, "Hey, if you want a date later tonight, ask for Jimmy O'Neal. He's my best bud. We're in love too, actually, but he's also my best bud. He'll fuck you up really well." Nodding, I go, "Thanks, um, I probably will need another date. Ha-ha, I definitely will, actually. I mean, after that excellent fuck you put on me, I want more." He goes, "Well, ask for Jimmy. Your hour is up, Tommy, it's been real," and he walks out the door just like that.

Damn, it feels so good getting fucked so well. I must have subconsciously known I would get fucked by the prostitute from pussy boys... not just ask for info. I'm glad I did too because now I can think straight again, so, yeah, that was a good question Gregory had. What am I going to do when I find the address of the sweatshop?

Then, I hop up and bring up the pussy boy site on my laptop to get the number. I forgot what it was, but I write it down this time. Calling the number, I get grilled again by Gregory's main man before he okays me having another date with Gregory at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Oh, man, I can't wait.

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com.

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