Chapter Three
Seated in his comfortable Mercedes Benz SL 550, Diego was staring at his cell phone; he had just finished a call to his lover, Robin Layton. Robin had not said anything after "hello", so Diego was suddenly slightly on edge. Robin was normally more talkative, more effusive; tonight, Robin seemed eager to get off the conversation. Diego wondered what was wrong; Diego had no inner moral compass to point him toward any personal responsibilities for the feelings and actions of others, so Diego could not possibly be the reason for Robin's attitude. Diego never expressed regret, Diego never apologized, Diego never assumed he had caused any ill-will in another person, especially the man who owned the bungalow in Hermosa Beach. In his own mind, Diego walked on water.
Likewise, Diego felt he had earned the gifts handed to him along the long horrible path escaping the jungle warfare of Guatemala: Robin did not know any of the details of Diego's background, why he left his village in Guatemala, how he had come to Los Angeles, how by the grace of the Virgin he had met Robin. Robin had never asked about Diego's refugee status and was not aware of the numerous times Diego had been raped by the two village parish priests, and then tossed aside after he was raped by a criminal gang and fought his way to the capital city. Pounding on the door of the American embassy in Guatemala City, Diego persuaded the authorities to grant hm refugee status for political violence and was soon shipped off to El Norte.
In Los Angeles, with no education and no work skills, Diego quickly found employment as a stripper in a nightclub in Beverly Hills, where he attracted the attention of middle-aged bisexual men with money and power. Diego quickly learned that you can be gay-for-pay, and the pay was very good, especially from men who could not afford for their nightlife habits to become public. It was a very short leap of logic from there to being a stripper in a nightclub in West Hollywood, where he usually wore a black, sometimes gold, Speedo, which always showcased his best asset. At 5-foot ten inches and 135 pounds, the Guatemala refugee could barely disguise his 8 inch long cock, with its very attractive three inches of foreskin.
That cock garnered sufficient attention nightly that Diego always made the rent, usually on time. Men would approach Diego and shove dollar bills into his Speedo, and embrace him, and whisper "I want to suck your cock" to which Diego would reply "$100", and then giggle and turn away, usually to another man who would embrace him and shove $5 into his Speedo and whisper "I want to fuck you" and Diego would giggle and reply "$300", or to the ones who said "I want you to fuck me" he would respond "Come with me to the dressing room."
Fucking on premises was against the rules as well as against the county ordinances, so Diego usually made arrangements for any form of fucking, whether he was the top or the bottom, to be done elsewhere; there was a small cockroach-ridden motel a block away with rooms for rent by the hour. Diego always paid for two hours, because after all, if he was doing the fucking, which Diego preferred, there was a handsome $500 in his pocket before the guest was naked. Usually his guests were drunk white suburban college boys, although a fair share were men who would have a hard time explaining to their suburban wives why they had to work so many long hours at their job.
One evening nearly midnight, after three bouts with three separate clients, with nearly $1,000 in his pocket from fuck fees plus tips, Diego decided that he needed to upgrade his resume. One of the Beverly Hills clients had slipped him a business card, with the name and address of a film production studio; Diego was in a taxi the next day at noon from his ratty apartment in his very best WalMart suit and tie enroute to the studio. When he asked for the producer's name at the front gate, and gave his stage name when requested, it was not the usual 20-30 minute pause before he was admitted. He was directed to the producer's office in less than 5 minutes.
Obviously sweating, and not from the mild mid-winter southern California climate, Diego was shown into the inner office and seated in the most comfortable sofa he had ever seen as the producer bolted the door. "What in God's name are you doing here?" hissed the producer.
"You gave me your card; I want a job. I want to work for you."
And so, by that Saturday, he was at WalMart picking our three new suits and ties and white shirts (the white shirts accented his Guatemala skin tone) and practicing his American accent. On Monday, when he presented himself at the gate of the studio, he was shown to the HR office where he was given a name badge and lanyard and a map of the studio and was directed to the office of a lesser producer, who immediately and effusively welcomed Diego into the studio family.
Family was a new word to Diego; he had a family back in a shitty little village in Guatemala, his mother and a younger sister and a drunken uncle; father' was long gone, and probably dead. It turned out, as Diego was to learn in less than a week, that family' meant the few line-producers who were authorized to detain Diego and use his main asset and main talent. `Fuck-buddy' was not a pretty term, so family would suffice.
For the client from the Beverly Hills bar/strip club, Diego's primary responsibility was to drop his pants as quickly as possible when requested, whether to fuck or to be fucked, usually over the edge of the desk. The routine was usually the same: the producer like to be sucked and then liked to shove his wet cock, his short thin cock, inside of Diego's ass and deposit a small load of cum within some five to seven minutes. For his weekly salary, now several times what he would earn in a week dancing in a Speedo in West Hollywood, Diego did not even mind that he had to clean himself after being fucked by the producer.
So there he was, sitting in the Mercedes in the parking lot of the Beverly Hills bar/strip club, musing on the vague pique registered in Robin's voice in his call, and deciding that he was a far more valuable asset than just a cum-dump for Hollywood types, or the grown-up suburban white boys from the Valley with tiny cocks. He deserved better. And he knew how to acquire it.
On Thursday morning, Diego was waiting patiently outside of the Trans-Mexico bus depot notorious for people from the far interior who arrived by the dozen. There were usually a half-dozen or so young Mexican boys, with little to claim as their own, including a knowledge of English, or a place to land. These were the targets for Diego and his new scheme: provide them a `free' place to sleep, safe from harm or La Migra, in exchange for sexual favors scattered among Diego's clients.
Within a month, he had six boys of various ages, probably all less than 21, whom he had recruited and pimped out to the white boys who frequented the WeHo strip club. With a net cash flow of some $3,000 per week, these illegals provided Diego with a new reason to smile every morning.
Within three months, Diego needed to rent two more apartments in the ratty building where he lived and where he lodged the boys from the interior; they never had sex in that building, clients expected better accommodations, so Diego had made friends with several by-the-hour motels in WeHo. Even with the hotel bills, the new clothing for the Mexicans, the food, and the transportation, Diego's monthly net was twice what he made at the studio.
Being surrounded by the accoutrements of studio life, Diego was inspired by another idea: he was fairly certain that none of these boys could act, but acting skill was not necessary, all they needed to do was suck and fuck. With cameras hidden in the hotel rooms, Diego began recording `amateur' gay porn films, which he then began marketing on the internet.
Within another month, his net income had tripled. Even with the attrition of talent, as the boys began one by one slipping away to find another line of work, there was a steady supply of new faces, always available every Thursday morning at the Trans-Mexico depot.
Diego did not have sex with the boys himself; he kept an arms-length business relationship with each of them. Besides, his own sexual appetite was more than fulfilled at the studio, with the producer and a half-dozen of his aides who wanted Diego for almost daily sex of various kinds. Diego had, consequently, acquired a raft of new sexual skills, and began applying those skills in the client base in his favorite Beverly Hills bar/strip club.
Likewise, his per-client fee went up as well; he was now charging $700 to be fucked, and $500 to fuck them. With an average of three clients a week, his monthly tax-free income from his Beverly Hills fuck traffic was more than $5,000.
Then he met Robin. Dr. Robin Layton had been a regular at the Beverly Hills club for a couple of years; Diego had noticed him but had never been approached by him. Finally, Diego decided to break his own code of conduct, and approached Robin, and said "Buy me a drink and we might be able to have some fun."
Robin glanced at the handsome, charming and very sexy boy toy and smiled and responded, "You know, I am sure you are very talented, and very skilled, but I am not in that market, but thanks anyway."
Following that disappointment, Diego excused himself and went to the dressing room to change and exit the bar, and Robin waved at the bar tender. Leaning over the bar far enough for the bar tender to be able to hear him, Robin said "Who is that gigolo and what does he do outside of here?"
The bar tender only knew Diego's stage name, "Rafa", and nothing else about the stripper. Robin decided to do his own research, which would involve at least dinner in a mid-priced dinner club. Within two weeks, he had seated himself across the table from "Rafa", and was conducting a very low-key conversation about hobbies, likes, dislikes, and other mundane and arcane topics which were certainly boring to "Rafa".
By the time the bill came, Diego was certain this loser white guy was a waste of time, until Robin offered him a ride home; Diego knew he could not afford to allow Robin to see his true home, the rat's nest apartment house in West Hollywood, so he had Robin drive him to the strip club in Beverly Hills. That trip in the Aston-Martin was all it took for Diego to re-frame his target and decided on-the-spot to pursue Robin.
Diego also knew that he had plenty of assets in order to ensnare Robin: he had been told that he has a perfect ass, which is true. Firm, round, smooth, and perfectly attractive. He had perfect balls also, each about the size of golf balls and hanging low; his asshole is pretty and pink and squints, and Diego keeps all of that real estate south of his cock shaved, and the territory north of his cock is neatly trimmed.
Dancers and strippers assist each other in keeping the tundra under control; Diego had a regular weekly appointment with three other dancers in the Beverly Hills strip club to shave each other. The boss often held surprise inspections, expecting the dancers to be in the best condition to bring in more clientele. They could not dance nude under current law, but could be almost nude, and frequently shared boner pills with each other to ramp up their reputations with clients.
Diego has charm; there is no doubt he could sell snow-cones in Hell. Within two months, he had slept in the queen-size bed in Hermosa Beach, and within three months had moved into the Hermosa Beach bedroom permanently. That of course required Robin to acquire transportation for Diego, so he generously allowed Diego to choose his own automobile. Diego of course felt the best revenge over the two village priests and the Guatemala gang-rapists was living a fabulous lifestyle, which included a Mercedes Benz.