Different Strokes Ch. 01

Out of the blue then, not really having been thinking about it, although it must have been there in my subconscious all along, I blurted out, "If this place doesn't meet your specifications, why don't we fuck at your place, Paul? You haven't taken me to your place yet."

He froze. I could feel his body tense up and he took air in and seemed to take the longest time to exhale it again. "My neighborhood isn't the best place to be conducting this sort of activity."

"What's wrong with this sort of activity between two willing men?" I asked. "It's not like you're married or anything. Your clinic works with gay men and you are openly contributing to gay aid charities. Surely your neighbors already suspect you're gay. You live alone."

I could feel him tense again. But I also could feel him hardening up again. He took being in heat again as an escape from talking to me about where we fucked. "I don't have long before I have to go back and you have me hard again. Roll over on your belly and go up on your knees."

I did so, he changed condoms, and I let him mount my ass and fuck me again. I didn't bring up the question of fucking at his place again—then or even later.

When he left, he said, "Come by the clinic at 6:30. We'll do the tests again."

"I'm sorry, I can't tonight, Paul, I have an appointment tonight to show some of my painting to a potential buyer—a woman," I said, not knowing then why I said that. I didn't have any appointment that night. I just didn't want to go to the clinic and put myself under Paul's control again by having an HIV test run. He never showed me the result of his own tests. I couldn't even be sure he actually ran the tests on himself.

"Then tomorrow night," he said. "I don't want to go long without being able to bareback you."

After he left and I thought about it, I knew why I was going to be busy that night. I borrowed the car Sid Tanner, the guy in the wheel chair—whose cock I continued to ride because there was no way he was contracting HIV as isolated and alone as he was—owned so that others could run errands for him, and at 6:30 I was parked up the street from Paul's clinic. I followed him through the town to a very nice residential neighborhood, where a garage door lifted when he turned his BMW into the driveway. There was a late-model SUV in the garage as well. He came out of the garage and tossed a ball between two teenage boys in the front yard for a minute or two, and when he went to the front door, he was greeting with a kiss from a woman.

Paul didn't live alone.

I drove from there to Denial, tossed back two drinks, picked out the meanest looking sailor who was sniffing around me, showed him where the Ypao Breeze Inn was, and let him bang the hell out of me for $30 plus the cost of the room. I let him bareback me. He enjoyed it and obviously considered himself lucky. I enjoyed it too, as it was completely my own decision, my own risk.

I didn't give a shit what Paul would think about it.

I didn't go to the clinic at 6:30 the next night. I didn't answer Paul's telephone call at 7:00. And I turned the lights off in the shack and just sat staring at the painting of him—which I had meanwhile altered to be anatomically correct. Where I'd placed it, the moonlight through the window wall lit it up. When he came and banged on the door at 7:30, I sat quiet as a mouse and didn't answer the door.

The next day I wrapped the painting of him up and had a delivery service take it to his house. I'd noted the address down when I followed him there. It was 50-50 whether or not he'd be the one to receive the package at the house. I thought those odds were fair.

I racked my brain to think whether or not I'd ever asked him if he was married before—to a woman—and had children at home he was a father to. If he'd told me, I wouldn't have gotten involved with him. My father had left my mother and run off with a man. That had left scars—and it probably had helped send me in the direction to going with men. But he'd been honest enough to break off his relationship with a family. He hadn't tried to have it all. And he hadn't, like Paul had, expected his male lover to be fully dedicated to the relationship.

In ensuing weeks, I'd rethought this and decided I'd been hasty—that the wife and children didn't deserve finding out this way, if at all. But then, if Paul did it with me, I bet he'd done it with others.

He did try to call and to come to the shack a couple of times in the next week. But I avoided him. He even came down to the beach at dawn one morning and sat on a towel watching me surf. But I stayed out in the ocean until he had left.

Then it stopped, and I was sure he'd found some other free spirit to try to break. It was only then that I realized that I had loved him and would have given up anything for him—that I had, in fact, been giving up a lot of my free spirit ways for him.

* * * *

"Keith? Lee Houser here. I have a Korean businessman here who I've told about you. I sent you a DVD he did for you to look at. Did you receive it?"

"Yes," I answered. "I'm looking at it now." And I was looking at it. The Korean was tall and slim and wiry. He was quite athletic too, wearing only a leather harness on his chest, black boots, and black leather wristbands. I found him sexy. I wouldn't mind being dominated by him. The film had been going on for twenty minutes before Houser called me. The Korean was seriously hung—almost as much as Houser was from the look of it. The film had started with a shot of a naked and impressively erect late-thirtyish Korean, holding a whip, forcing a small, naked blond youth to his knees in front of him with a cruel grip of his head hair, forcing the huge cock between the youth's lips, and side-arm whipping the blond's buttocks. The strength of the lash was more dramatic than painful, but the young man flinched with each blow—not, however, enough to dislodge the Korean's cock from his throat. The film was giving the impression of suggestive arousal more than actual brutality—at least that's what I took from it, already in the grip of the dominating Korean.

"Do you like what you see?" Houser asked over the telephone connection. "I know it's a bit more extreme than we usually—"

"Do you mean am I beating off to it?"

"That would be an indication, yes," he said, laughing.

"Yes," I admitted, "I'm beating off to it." It had made me go hard; it had made me stroke myself. "I'm afraid I do like what I see," I added, aware of the danger of enjoying what I saw and imagining it was happening to me.

This scene moved into a sequence shot from across the table of the small, blond guy—maybe eighteen or nineteen, not more than a year younger than I was—belly down on the top of a table, his face pointed at the camera. He was clutching the table top on either side of him at the edge. There was no doubt from his facial expression that he was being fucked hard and deep. The Korean was saddled up behind him, holding the young man's hips between his hands. The Korean had a blissful, satisfied look on his face. The camera panned around to the side of the tableau, providing a shot of the long, thin cock taking long strokes into the blond's ass. The Korean reached up, grabbed a hank of the youth's blond curls and arched the young man's torso back cruelly. The youth cried out, "Oh, shit, oh, fuck! Yes, screw me hard!"

The young man screamed this same phrase at intervals throughout the video—providing a notion of a limited vocabulary of being taken on his part and a similarity between this film and most other porn vids.

In the next shot, the young man was suspended over the carpet, his arms stretched out in front of him, grasping the edge of the table. His body streamed back to the Korean's. The Korean was standing in a crouch between the young man's thighs, his hands holding the blond's body up by clutching his waist, and the hands pulling the youth's buttocks back and forth on the Korean's cock. This transitioned into the Korean lying on his back on the table with the blond youth suspended over his body in a crab position, the youth's hands and feet flat on the table on either side of the Korean's body and his pelvis rising and falling on the Korean's cock. The Korean transitioned from this to grabbing the young man under his knees and raising and spreading his legs. Somehow the Korean had gotten his chin under the youth's chin and forced the young blond's head to arch back severely. The Korean was fucking up into the young man's hole, and the youth was gurgling, his face showing the intensity of the taking to the camera.

"Kim has watched the film you did the day of the fashion show, Keith," Houser said over the phone. "He's making a week-long trip to Honolulu and would like some companionship. He's good, very, very good. I know this for a fact. He's hung like an elephant."

"Yes, I can see that," I answered.

"You can see for yourself that he'll give you a good fuck. I know this is a bit extreme, but he'll pay you $5,000 and cover all expenses if you'll go to Honolulu and let him use you when and as he likes. What do you have to say about that?"

I zipped the DVD back and started watching it from the beginning again. "Sorry, Lee, but I meant to tell you sooner. I've given up that business. My paintings are selling well now, and I've signed up for a surfboard contest and have to do a lot of practicing. Best of luck in finding someone for this Korean dude. He's seriously hung, yes he is."

I only half listened to his arguments and he eventually got the idea and let me go.

I felt a great burden lifting off my shoulders. I felt free.

The telephone rang again.

"Yes, I do that," I said in answer to the question from the sailor saying he was just off the ship on shore leave and had been given my card. "Do you have a photo to show me?"

"OK, good." Better than good if it really was him. It was a naked shot. He was built and good looking—and young. Older than I was but still in his twenties.

"Here's my photo. And another one. Still interested?"

"OK, good. I'll let you do just about anything you want as often as you want all night for $300 plus the hotel. There's one near where you're calling from called the Ypao Breeze Inn that asks no questions and charges $50 a night. Anything you want, although I have some suggestions you might be interested in. If you want it, book the room and call me back to give me the room number. Have the money on the desk for me to see when I enter the room."

* * * *

I was belly down on the bed, feet on the floor, facing a mirror on the opposite wall. My arms were raised over my head, gripping the edge of the mattress on the other side. The hunky young, muscular sailor was saddled up behind me, grabbing my hips between his hands and rapidly pulling me on and off his thick cock, banging the hell out of me. We were both looking into the mirror, at each other, our faces showing the lust and pleasure we were getting. Two young, healthy bodies banging away at each other. He came in a gush of cum, filling the bulb of his rubber. He pulled the rubber off his cock and threw it on the floor.

Forty minutes later, I was gripping the edge of the desk in the Ypao Breeze Inn room, with my body suspended straight out behind me, my legs streaming around the sailor's slim hips and tight ass. He was crouched a bit between my legs, holding my waist between his hands, and pulling me on and off his cock. Banging the hell out of me again. He was young, virile, and ready to go again constantly. He tensed and jerked, I cried out, "Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, screw the hell out of me," and he came in a gush of cum, filling the bulb of his rubber. I heard the snap of the rubber being pulled off and turned my head to see him toss it, thick as a sea slug with cum, on the floor.

I ached that it be barebacking, but I couldn't chance it.

Forty-five minutes later the sailor was on his back on the bed, and I was suspended above him in a crab position, my hands and feet flat on the mattress on either side of his body. He held my waist between his hands and I raised and lowered my pelvis, taking his cock deep inside my passage. He tensed, pushed me off to the side on my back, went up on his knees, jerked the rubber off his cock and came on my chest and belly. The used rubber was flipped to the floor.

Twenty minutes later I was lying on the foot of the bed, my thighs spread, my legs dangling toward the floor. The hunky young sailor was kneeling on the floor between my thighs, working my anal hole with his mouth and fingers. I was pulling on my cock. I tensed, jerked, and shot my load toward the ceiling in a high arc of cum. The sailor stood, crowned himself with a rubber, grabbed my ankles with his hands, cruelly wishboned my legs, moved in with his erection, skewered me, and started banging the hell out of me again. "Oh, shit. Oh, fuck!" I cried out. "Screw me hard!"

An hour later, he came back from having a smoke at the window. I was lying on my side on the bed, panting lightly and staring at the door into the bathroom of the small, tawdry room. I had told him he could go all night if he wanted to for the $300, but I hadn't imagined that he would. I heard the snap of the rubber being pulled into place. There were four—or maybe five, I'd lost count—spent ones on the floor. He was young, virile, full of cum, and perpetually hard. He grabbed my ankles and pulled my legs down to where my butt came to the edge of the foot of the bed. I moaned and half turned to my back, but he bent and pushed my upward leg up into my chest, moving me back to my side. I felt the bulb of the cock at my now-gaping hole as he gave me three inches.

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," I murmured in an exhausted voice, leaving off the "Screw me hard," as we were now well past that. Maybe I'd been a bit too quick in saying yes to a young, virile sailor.

Holding the ankle of the bent leg in one hand and grasping my other thigh with the other, he pushed his hard cock up into my passage, compressed now by the position of my thighs, giving him a tighter channel than he'd had since the first reaming, and started a slow, rhythmic fuck. I raised my arm, pressing my hand into the cleft between his pecs, grabbing hold of a set of dog tags he had nestled there, hanging on a chain. I wasn't trying to push him away; I was too tired to do that. It was more to feel him there, working me, to make more of a connection between us than his dick inside me and his hands on my thighs. But, to tell the truth, having the dick of a virile, young, handsome sailor inside me was all right too. I moaned. "Oh, shit. Oh, fuck."

"I've got one night of shore leave," he murmured. "Got a whole lot of cum to dump. Guess it's your lucky night, blondie."

I was just a sailor's cheap one-night shore leave rent-boy lay on the remote dumpy rock of an island, Guam, again. But I made all of my own decisions for what I was going to let a man do to me and I was a free spirit.

When the sun came up, I was alone in the room at last, lying on my side, my knees curled up into my stomach, moaning and still panting. The sailor hadn't left more than fifteen minutes before. I knew my hole was gaping and rubbed raw, my passage pulsating. He'd fucked me through the night, getting the most bang he could for his $300. One of Lee Houser's clients would have paid me that much just to suck him off once. But I felt strangely satisfied—and still in full control of my life.