Flip Mecum Ch. 01

Young South Texas gay finds his way to a Houston club

This is an original, fictional story. None of the persons or places is real—even if their names seem familiar. Everyone engaged in sexual activity is over 18. © 2024. Brunosden All rights reserved.

[This is a multi-chapter series. I'm not sure how long at this point (six are written, but I haven't finished). The first chapters deal with self-discovery of the young principal character. There is some sex, but not romantic in nature. I've tried to capture the casual attitudes of the young, then the cynical, jaded attitudes of many professional sex workers—even the youngest recruits. If you're looking for a short stroke piece or romance, it would be best if you looked elsewhere—consider tuning in to the later chapters. BD]

The story is in the first person.

******

"That's it. I'm outta here. I've had fuckin' enough of your shit."

With those words, I threw my fork in the plate with what was left of the scrambled eggs that I had made. I stood quickly and my chair fell over. But out of habit, I took he plate to the sink, rinsed it and put in in the DW. Old habits die really slowly.

I took the stairs two at a time, entered the room I shared with a younger brother, and began throwing my few clothes into my ancient camp duffel bag, the only luggage I owned. I looked around, grabbed my wallet, cell and laptop, slipped into my boots and headed out. Fortunately the ancient Ford 150 was mine—and in my name. That and my cell were my top possessions—although I guessed that I'd have to find another way to pay for the cell service if I was no longer part of Pop's family plan. I flew back down the stairs, headed through the door, pitched the bag in the front seat and drove off, not really knowing where I was going. Pop had not spoken a word after his every day sermon on my life and his expectations for me.

I had graduated a month and a half ago from Hanover VoTech (the tech side of a regional high school) and last night had celebrated my 19^th birthday with three friends. It was also an early going away party for two of them. I had been reasonably popular in school, active in some student activities, a star forward on the small school basketball team and had a small circle of good friends. Mom had disappeared from our lives years ago. I had two older sisters, neither married, living together in Houston where they worked as secretaries. All I knew was that Houston was a big city, probably the most liberal in Texas, with a large gay population. It had never occurred to me that the Emerald City moniker might have something to do with its willingness to welcome and tolerate most folks. It beaconed like Oz to me.

Since graduation, it had been a difficult six weeks. There was really no future for me in Hanover. I hadn't found I job that I wanted, or that wanted me. I hadn't applied to go away to school. Half of my little gang was leaving, and the one guy who was staying was likely to end up stuck here in a low paying job—with a wife and a brood of kids. In just a few days I had gone from being a popular star in my class to a poor nobody in Nothingville.

One younger brother, 17, was still at home. But Pop seemed to have given up on me and had been riding me unmercifully for months. My hair was too long. I spent too much damn time at the gym. Why hadn't I applied for a job where he worked? Why hadn't I completed my chores? And why did I continue to hang out with "those degenerate fags" that I called friends, despite his prohibitions. He knew (or at least strongly suspected) that I was gay—a word he refused to use. I guess he wasn't very different from the other parents in our little corner of evangelical Texas. No tolerance for alternative lifestyles. They didn't even know the word. My friends and I, on the other hand, were only a little beyond the initial discovery of gay sex.

Last night was apparently the last straw. I had invited the guys (all "faggot ne'er do wells," according to Pop) to celebrate our recent graduation and the departure in a few weeks of two of them. We had used the barn, which was quite a ways from the newer house on the ranch where we lived, but nearer to the abandoned trailer which the previous owner's "hands" had used. We weren't a working ranch anymore so the barn was empty most of the time. I had bought the beer. We had been drinking, smoking some weed that Pete had found and playing a bit of poker, mostly an excuse to lose clothes, with the inevitable consequence of that. We had finished the first game of strip poker, and I had lost. I was naked and bent over a hay bale, my gym-built bubble butt open for business.

Marco, my handsome Latino buddy, had just finished fucking me with his dark fat dick. It wasn't the first time. At first, we had thought maybe we might find happiness with each other. We had fucked like rabbits, Marco usually on top. He had a nice uncut tool which knew how to rev my motor. On the second date, he had found my prostate and stroked it with his shaft, and I thought I was in love. But, it was just puppy lust (dick-traction) and really hadn't clicked. He had gone in bare with minimal lube on previous times we were together, and I had usually cum. He had gotten off that night, but I was still hot. He actually was mostly about himself, I discovered. Maybe not so different from most teen boys. So, I was open and dripping with his cum. And the musk was heavy in the dusty barn air.

Pete was getting ready to take sloppy seconds. He was stroking his fat little shaft to hardness (we always kidded him that he would soon need to grow a man's dick), getting ready to enter. And Mac had begun feeding his long thin cut cock into my mouth. Neither Pete nor Mac were regular fuck or blow buddies, but they had nice bodies and as they say, any dick in a desert. Everyone was rock hard, high on the weed and beer and paying no attention to the rest of the world. No real feelings were involved; this was strictly recreational sex, one step above a hand or blow job—young guys experimenting with the sexual possibilities of their eager, hormone-driven bodies. Probably a half hour later, after another game, we would repeat the process with another of us as a ready and willing bottom. In fact, at that point, we didn't really distinguish between top and bottom. Both were sex. And both felt really good.

In a week or so, Marco was leaving to join his brother's construction team near Houston. He had learned carpentry at VoTech and was a wizard with wood. (He wasn't so bad in using his thick piece of wood when he was in me either!) Pete was leaving for college in El Paso. Mac would probably marry in Hanover, sire a brood of brats, never leave, and live a life of sexual denial. I was still undecided on my future.

Pop had come home late—he often did on Fridays when he got paid and stopped by the "club" to have a few before coming home. (A few often turned into many and he was typically staggering a bit.) He heard the music, appeared at the barn door, and swore. "I don't care who invited you fags. Get the fuck out of my barn and my ranch. Get the fuck dressed now, you bunch of deviants." Pointing to the weed, he shouted, "Take that shit with you." Then he looked at me. I was barefoot, nude and rigidly erect, showing off my sculpted pecs and abs and my dick (which I knew was quite a bit larger than his own). "Get the fuck in the house, boy. No faggin' around on this ranch. Get a good payin' job by the end of the week. Or get out. I don't want any more to do with ya'. And keep these whores off my property. And don't corrupt Billy." The same old lines.

I noticed the fire and hunger in his eyes, knew that he wasn't getting any since Mom left and even considered that he might take a turn bending me over the hay bale if I crossed him and stayed around. I could see he was hard in his pants. He had obviously been watching for some time before the outburst. So I didn't take my eyes off him while I dressed.

(Little did Pop know that Billy was already more than half way through fucking all the girls in our small regional high school. He was a looker, like me, and a bulked up fullback—but of a different sexual persuasion. He was taking what they'd let him have—which was just about everything. If he weren't careful, one of them was going to trap him in Hanover with a pregnancy.)

The next morning over breakfast—that I had made for everyone, Pop had started in on me again. And I had had enough. I really didn't have any good friends despite my general popularity. Some gays had bonded because we were outsiders. And life here was now just unbearable. "Here" incidentally was an old oil town, with one operating facility which "stripped" natural gas liquids: Hanover, Texas. Population 550—I think they count the dogs and horses. 200 miles from nowhere.

Thus, I was on the road, half-way to Houston by ten o'clock. I was dressed in an old tee that showed off my gym torso, older jeans that were worn in all the right places, boots and a straw cowboy hat, sitting on top of my dirty blonde hair, pulled into a pigtail. My only indulgence: the expensive designer aviator glasses that I had bought myself as a graduation present. I had less than a hundred in my wallet—and no credit cards. A real Texas cowboy shit-kicker. I was told I was handsome often enough--in a bad boy kind of way, and I knew my body was pretty good. And I was gay. Really gay. A masculine-acting confirmed bottom with a sizable dick. In fact, I was pretty sure that if I had been hitchhiking, some dude would have already taken the bait, and I'd be sucking my way to Houston in an expensive car.

I stopped at a road house gas station, bought a Dr. Pepper and sat in the cab. It was time to think, boy. What the fuck are you going to do now? You've burned your bridges.

As a last resort since I couldn't come up with anything else, I used the cell to call one of my sisters. After a few minutes, it had invited myself to stay with them. I could sleep on their sofa—but three nights was the max. Their place was small—only one bedroom which they shared. Three nights was the unbreakable rule. Too many friends and relatives had asked for a place to stay in Houston "while they looked for work" and never left until they were booted. "It doesn't matter that you're our bro. That is the rule. No exceptions. Period." So I had three nights to find a job and start a new life—and maybe find my true love.

I met them at the 80s apartment building—not new, not distinguished, not expensive, but convenient—when they arrived together at the end of the day. We chatted over dinner and I filled them in on the family news, such as it was. Then I had told them that I had left home—for good. If I hadn't, I was pretty sure Pop was going to throw me out soon anyway—if he didn't kill me first. I didn't add that I thought he was probably also going to fuck me as soon as he got the chance. Neither knew or even suspected that I was gay. There had always been plenty of girls around when they were home.

I bounced a few job ideas. I had majored in electrical contracting in the vocational track at Hanover County Regional High, but I didn't have a license or anything. They named a few housing contractors who were active in the suburbs, but didn't have much else to offer. I was not office material. And I didn't see myself flipping for MickeyD. And the "guest workers" had taken just about all the day labor jobs.

So the first day, I applied at three different construction sites. At the first two I was told that I probably would get a call-back—but not for a week or two. That's how long it took to process potential workers—except day laborers, mostly Latino, paid off the books and in cash. They needed to check an arrest record for an employee.

At the third, the master electrician had dropped his fingers into my waistband as he walked me to the truck, pushed me back into it, stroked my ass, got real close, grabbed my dick to test it if was hard and invited me for a beer. I was pretty sure that he expected to be doing more than drinking with me before the evening was over—and he was sporting a gold wedding band and a large beer belly. I slipped away—and that probably meant I wouldn't be hearing from him again.

I decided I needed a pick-me-up. So I called my sister and told her I wouldn't be home for dinner. Then I headed to Peacock Studios which I was told was the nicest gay-friendly club. I needed a beer—and my sisters were teetotalers. I wasn't old enough, but that never had stopped me before. After all it's Texas, but this is liberal Houston!

It wasn't really all that nice. An old three story concrete block warehouse with a metal roof in what had been the industrial part of town. (Someone later said that the HPD left them alone because there were no nearby residential areas (except "gaytown')—so youth would not be corrupted; and of course, there probably was a good-sized payoff involved as well.) The only visible signs that it was a club were a small sign with what was probably a "borrowed" NBC peacock nailed to the wall by the metal door, an enormous bouncer (who was checking IDs carefully), and a few cars in the parking lot. It didn't seem that there was any other life in this neighborhood "in transition."

I approached the bouncer, and he carefully scanned my ID. He also carefully scanned my body, lingering on my crotch. Then he put a yellow hospital band around my left wrist (which of course meant that, although I was over 18, no alcohol for me). Apparently, I couldn't drink, but the other patrons could pick me up. No cover. It was an off-night. The place was air-conditioned, but the dance floor was concrete, the bar was long and battered, and the atmosphere was a little seedy—concealed by dim colorful lighting. Along one wall about ten "booths" were lined up with 8' high separating walls and gaudy velvet curtains on shower poles at the entrance. In each was a padded bench, two folding chairs and a little table. These I guess passed for privacy rooms. It was definitely just this side of a dump. But it was a crowded, gay-friendly dump. One of several in that part of Houston, in the Montrose District, near downtown to the extent that anywhere in Houston could be called downtown.

I went up to the bar and ordered a soda and held out a five. The bartender looked hard at me, winked and served up a beer and took the five. That was the last one I paid for that night. I was fresh meat. And definitely "prime" by the standards of that place.

I probably should describe myself. I'm 6-1 and pretty slim—maybe 170 lbs soaking wet. Darkly tanned rancher's skin. Angular face with a sharp nose, piercing green eyes, and thick lips—the look that signals a bad guy in a spaghetti western—and boils the blood of the innocent little blonde cowgirls. There is obviously Native American blood in my veins. Small muscles, particularly my bis and tris from the ranch work and a limited amount of exercise from basketball and some gymnastics, hard pecs, and really cut abs. And no body hair except my badly manscaped pubes. Dirty blonde hair (from a bottle) worn to my shoulders or in a pigtail. And, oh yeah. I'm hung—8 incher with a dark, reddish bulbous head, covered by a tight hood, arching quite nicely over big egg-shaped balls. From the reactions of the girls (and even a few of the guys) in my high school, I was pretty sure that I was special.

(The doc giving my b-ball physical once told me I was still growing; that I'd probably add a couple more inches before I stopped. I smiled at him while he held my dick in his hands, and asked, "Two inches more dick? How can you tell?" He replied quickly as he dropped the dick, "No son, two more inches of this and no girl will ever let you in. You're already in the top 1%" I sure hoped. I wanted a porn dick. And I knew guys liked big ones.)

And a small muscled butt. I've been known to stop conversation when I walked into the cafeteria at school. The tight rear of my jeans hugged me tightly and helped to form a nice vee. And I could have had any girl I wanted. I was definitely the bad boy to be enjoyed, but not engaged. At the prom, I definitely would have been king. I had brains too. If I were college prep, I certainly would be headed for a good school. So why the fuck had I turned out so bad?

But, back at the club, guy after guy approached me and offered to buy. I knew the rules. Hanover may be in the boonies, but we do have internet. One gets him conversation and a chance to convince you he's the one for tonight. Let him buy you two, and he gets a blow in the john. Three, and he takes you to a booth—or maybe even home.

Then, I learned the "shadow of the law" gimmick used at Peacock. Texas permitted 18 plus year olds to work in and tend bar, sit at a bar, and drink alcohol "if accompanied by a parent or guardian." Many of the regulars at Peacock had signed phony "guardianship papers." So I had gone from having one difficult Pop in Hanover to dozens of anxious and willing "guardians" at Peacock. What a scam!

I was flattered and attracted to it all. We had nothing like this in Hanover. This place was full of gay guys; some of them were even good looking. And soon I decided that my ego needed some stroking. Well, at least one part of me needed to be stroked, and it was deep inside my ass. I needed to get fucked.

So, I started looking around at my "guardians" to decide who the lucky guy was going to be. The third guy to buy was a little older. He was well-groomed and well-dressed. Bigger than me, but about my height. Bulkier muscles. He introduced himself and moved in. That must have been a signal as several of the other potential contenders immediately dropped away. By then, I was feeling very little pain. "I know it's corny, but sometimes it's even true. You're new here aren't you? And you're lookin' pretty good, boy." The deep voice and commanding presence took me by a little surprise. He was speaking with authority—like he owned the place. And he had scared off all of my suitors.

"I'm Flip, Mister,—for Phillip—Mecum. Flip to just about everyone."

"What brings you to the Peacock, Flip?"

"New to Houston. Living with my sisters. Looking for work." (I decided not to lie. It was too difficult to remember when you start lying.)

"What kind of work?"

"I'm an electrician, not licensed yet, but really very good. My degree from school is supposed to give me journeyman status. I need about a year's experience to apply for a license."

"Any luck yet?"

"A few leads earlier today, and they took my application. But no job offer."

"Summer is just starting. Working in those houses under construction is hot work. Houston gets damn hot. And most of the crew don't speak English."

"I'm not afraid of the heat. But I'm looking at two weeks before any job is offered. Our Governor, in his infinite wisdom, has required any new hire to be processed first to make sure he's not illegal, breaking parole, or wanted. I think it's mostly to make it almost impossible for illegal immigrants to get work. But, I'm told it really doesn't work—except for real Texas citizens. But, I need to work on the books in order to claim a license later."

"I might be able to do better than that. Can you dance, boy? Turn around and let me see the whole package." I stood away from the bar and turned around slowly. Somehow I had the feeling, he was a fake, wanting to sample the goods. But, I knew what I looked like and there was no harm in advertising. "I really don't know. I've never done anything except in the privacy of my own room. Dancin' was prohibited in Hanover. It's one of the tools of the devil."

"I like the way you look, Flip. Incidentally, I'm Marty Peacock. This is my little place. There's DJ dancing every night here after ten. And on weekends, we have dance shows on the stage over there." He pointed to a stage just behind the bar that I hadn't noticed before—and then I realized the three poles were not structural, but props.