Rough Trade (19 page)

I pulled on his nipples as he tugged on his slimy cock. Then I turned around and let him sniff my crack as I squatted over him and pulled on my own juicing dick. That sent him over the edge, and I doubled my efforts as he bit down on one cheek, then the other, and he hollered in joy and pain. I turned around to see his ass swallow what little remained of Mr. Jesus as he shot an enormous, scalding load of cum onto the floor, where it was joined a moment later by my own cataclysmic torrent.

We both squatted there, facing each other and trembling, for about three minutes until he grimaced and raised himself off Mr. Jesus. He sat again on the floor, where we were still separated by a small lake of mutual jism.

Standing, I threw a small towel on the floor and smiled. “Wipe that up, and then come over to the couch.” I wiped myself dry, creakily moved myself to the library’s small refrigerator and took out a platter of goodies, then moved to the huge leather sofa. A moment later, his head was in my lap and I was idly stroking his hair.

Some time later, I awoke with a start and realized we’d drifted off. I nudged my client awake. He stirred sleepily, then, realizing where he was, sat up, startled. I grinned at him. “Let’s go to bed and get comfortable.” And with that, I picked him up in my arms and carried him down the hall.

I figured I’d have him sleep curled up on the floor, attached to the foot of the bed by a chain just long enough to reach the toilet.

Fuck that.

I placed him on the bed and jumped in, pulling the covers over our shoulders. I ran my hands lovingly over his taut body and pulled him close to me so that we were resting on our sides, spoon-style, with his back hugged tight to my chest.

It was a position we would repeat often in the months to come. And come, and come…

Frisco

Greg Wharton

My name is Joshua Clark II, Josh to my friends and clients. I volunteer on Fridays at the Brighton Retirement Home, a low-income old-age residency on Nob Hill, donating my time and services to some of the old guys who will end their days living there.

My favorite Friday friend is Manny Freed, also known as Frisco. He’s always my first visit. He’s seventy years young. His body’s not too sound anymore, but his mind is sharp. No known family. Lonely. But quite a character. And an amusing past. I never really know whether I should believe the tales he tells or not, but they’re certainly colorful, and he gets so excited when he spins them he lights up.

I’m running late today, thanks to a lengthy call from my mom, and after checking in with my supervisor, Nurse Wretched, I find Frisco in the TV lounge, on the couch, his big feet on the coffee table in front of him, a can of Fresca in one gnarly hand and a More cigarette in the other. His attention is firmly focused on a rap video he is watching, and the More’s ash is way too long, just barely holding on, ready to fall into his lap at any moment.

“Frisco!” I scream, probably louder than I should. “I thought you were supposed to cut down on those.”

The ash breaks off, bouncing down the front of his robe, then falling between the spots and white hair of his bare legs to the tiled floor, still in one piece.

“Josh, my boy. Glad you came. You’re late. Verna here isn’t being very sociable today. I can use the company.” With that, he pokes his bony fingers and prissy cigarette at the little round lady with blue hair wearing pink chiffon seated in one of the other chairs, also watching the video. She doesn’t react to me being there, or to her name being mentioned. “Let’s go to my room.”

He puts his cigarette out in the ridiculously large and horrid ceramic horoscope ashtray, and I help him to stand up. We slowly walk down the hall, arm in arm, like best friends, or lovers, to his room, him carrying his Fresca, and me with my brown paper bag of gifts and windbreaker.

“Did you know I once knew Andy Warhol?” he asks once we get to his room and sit down in the two chairs at the foot of his bed.

“Why no, Frisco, I didn’t.”

“Do you know who he is? You might be too young.”

He’s a big butterball of flattery, that Frisco. I am too young! But should I be insulted that he thinks I don’t know my pop and art history?

“Yes, I do,” I respond.

“It was through him that I first met Joe Dallesandro. Ever seen any of his films?” He sounds so serious, and he has a very funny look on his face, like extreme gas, or maybe love. He smiles thinly, then takes a sip of his Fresca.

“I have. He’s a babe, Frisco. Very foxy. He was in those Warhol flicks
Flesh
and
Trash,
right? I saw them last year at the Castro during Warhol week. Oh, yeah, and
Heat.
I loved
Heat
! Do you really know him?”

“Paul Morrissey? The director? Yes, I knew him.”

“No, Joe.”

Frisco yawns. His pale blue eyes look tired, watery and red. I glance at the clock on his bedside table: 2:30. Oh, I really am running late today. Too bad. Frisco’s usually napping by now, and I should already be onto my next visit down the hall, with Mr. Kasner.

“Frisco, it’s past your naptime. Let’s get you in bed.” His hair is all messed up. I reach over and comb the thinning wisps of white to one side with my fingers, then pad the cowlick down in the back. “There, better.”

“I’m not a baby, damn it!” he snaps, then gives me a look that could kill. I give him one right back that lets him know he shouldn’t fuck with me. “Fine, help me up, then.”

I get up and close his door for more privacy, then help to lift him up. We shuffle over to his bedside, and his good mood returns. “Aren’t you gonna ask me about Joe Dallesandro, Josh?”

“Sure. Sure, Frisco.” I pull the thin cotton robe off his shoulders and lay it down in one of the chairs. I pull back his bedsheet and tap his bed with my palm as an invitation. “How’d you meet him?”

“He was in love with me, actually. We met at the Factory—”

“Here, Frisco…” I interrupt, peeling his baggy undershorts down, helping him sit on the bed, then pulling them off each leg. I put my arm over his shoulders and lay him on his back, lifting each leg up and onto the bed. Frisco is naked except for his dirty stretched out T-shirt and his black socks. “How’d you meet?”

“…you wouldn’t know it now, but I was once a good-lookin’ guy…”

Unlike the rest of Frisco’s body, which has aged and looked as though it was on its last stretch, his cock showed no sign of aging or willingness to slow down. Despite being framed in brittle white hair, it’s a beautiful sight to behold: perfectly sculpted, with a smooth pale shaft and thick blue veins and a huge tawny brown mushroom head, and when hard, like now, it’s extremely large and impressive. Downright mouthwatering.

I pull two Trojan Magnum XL condoms from my gift bag. I buy them just for Frisco since he’s so big. He’s worth the extra investment.

“…and once he tasted me, he was hooked. He fell in love with me, Josh, but…”

I quickly walk to the door and slip the lock on, just in case Nurse Wretched decides to check in on us, then hurry over to his side. His eyes are closed and he is still spinning his yarn like we were having tea together in some bistro. But his cock knows different. It’s ready for action.

“…Paul was there and he took movies of Joe and me naked, doin’ it right on the couch with Andy watching…”

I open each condom from its foil and roll first one, then another for good measure,
better safe than sorry
’s my motto, over his trembling monster cock. I lean over and lick his hairy balls. He smells really good: a mix of piss and sweat and skin, but sweet, kind of like a baby. I lick the length of his cock. I then grip it firmly in my fist so it stands straight up and swallow as much as I can in one gulp.

“Little Joe…oh, Joe. Yes…”

I suck him hard, giving his cock my undying focus, long full strokes while clamping my lips and tongue as hard around him as I can, using my fist to jerk it at the same time. I’m good at what I do and I know he’ll shoot pretty quickly.

“Joe!”

Frisco’s hands pull at the back of my head and he bucks against my face. I keep one hand firmly grasping the bottom half of his cock so I won’t choke. He’s pretty frisky and this baby’s a bit too huge to chance it without a handguard.

“Joe! Oh, Joe! I’m going to come!”

And he does, thrusting himself hard up into my mouth. I feel his entire cock convulse, the underside pumping and the head spitting, pumping and spitting, pumping and spitting, spitting cum into the tip of Trojan #1.

“
Joooeeewww
!”

I almost wish he wasn’t jimmied so I could taste him. I’m sure it would be an impressive and tasty mouthful. I suck for another minute, then pull my head free and lay his arms down at his sides.

Frisco is still except for his chest slowly rising and falling. I peel both condoms off and tuck them in the plastic baggie I brought, then back into the gift bag so no one will find them. When I turn back, he’s sleeping, a soft snore coming from his damp liver-spotted lips. I grab a baby wipe from the bathroom and dab at his cock, still hard, still beautiful, and hopefully happy enough to hold him until next week, then toss the wipe in his waste bucket.

“Sleep tight, sweetie,” I say and kiss him on his cheek. I grab my bag and windbreaker, and pull out the newest copy of
Bound & Gagged
magazine that I’ve brought for him. I slide it—with two travel packets of Glide lubricant—under his pillow and head as a surprise for later, then pull the bedsheet over his sleeping naked body. Don’t want Nurse Wretched to get too excited if she finds him that way!

I check myself in the mirror in his bathroom. I smile and ruffle my hair up a bit. I look good: healthy and happy. Sunshine on my cheeks, bright eyes, and a dazzling Dream Date smile. I’m fortunate. That’s why I like to donate my time and talent to others who are in need and lonely, to share what I can.

Blowing a kiss to Frisco, I unlock the door and prop it open, then head down the hall to Mr. Kasner’s room. He promised me pictures of his grandchildren, and I promised him a new Bel Ami video to sneak late at night. He won’t take too long. He doesn’t like to tell many stories, just likes to stick it in and get it over with wham-bam like. But he’s sweet. I should be back on schedule then.

Volunteering is such satisfying work.

The Hard Way

M. Christian

A half dozen blocks from the hall, a bum offered to blow him for a dollar.

Stanley’d left the hotel on Flood Street in the afternoon. That morning at two or so he’d stripped down to his BVDs and T-shirt and stretched out on the stiff sheets, the yellow-stained window shade tap-tap-tapping against the sill from a steady breeze. At first he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but despite the humming of his nerves and the sound of the shade on the sill he closed his eyes once, twice—and opened them again at five.

He’d taken a few minutes to shave, scraping the old safety razor across his cheeks, the scraping echoing in the small bathroom. Despite the butterflies in his stomach, he’d taken his time getting into his last good suit. He’d carefully polished his shoes the night before. The Hamburg he’d picked up in Philly. The two-grand roll went into his suit pocket, a few bucks for food and booze went into the pants. Hand on the knob, he noticed a smudge of something white and powdery—probably plaster—on his slim leather case so he stopped, walked over to the sink, and carefully cleaned the faded leather with the corner of a towel.

He walked. He didn’t want to be late, but being early was just as bad. Late would have been rude, but almost expected from a damned good player: it meant he was too good to bother looking at his watch before a game. Early, though…early meant he was wet behind the ears, and he’d be admitting to jittery nerves. So he walked, feeling the day cool into night, watching Baltimore’s lights hum and flicker to life.

He didn’t know where he was, but he knew where the hall was. Tevis’s Pool & Billiards was four blocks forward, four to the left.

From the heavy shadows of a narrow alley, the spook’s voice was soft, musical. “Hey, hey, hey—” until Stanley turned toward him.

“Yeah? What the fuck you want?” Stanley said, tone more bored or distracted than threatening. He’d taken and given more than his fair share since riding out from Oakland. His knee still hurt when it got real cold, a memory of when a couple of crackers in Memphis had got him with a five iron. He didn’t need to see the guy to know he could handle him if he needed to.

“Hey, mister! Got a buck, mister?”

He wasn’t as old as he sounded. Not a kid, but not gray and hunched either. Maybe as tall as Stanley, but a lot of meals less in size. Hair cut real close, probably only a week out of stir. Eyes brown. Skin like the faded leather on Stanley’s shoes, till last night when he’d sponged on the dark polish. He had a stink, like booze—but also like a lot of spooks Stanley had known, so he knew he might not have been drunk.

“Come on, brother. All I’s want is a spot or two for a couple of longnecks and a room.”

Stanley’s hand was in his pocket, the crackle of the bills making the spook’s eyes brighten. Normally, Stanley would have told him to fuck off, but not tonight. Tonight was too bright, too clear: it was a game night. A big game night—probably his biggest—and he was just feeling too good to get pissed off.