earn my own way.
He wondered how Michael would feel about that. For that matter, James wondered what anyone might call their current arrangement. James lived in the Shepherd's Bush flat yet did nothing to pay his way, unless cooking counted. He could pretend he earned his keep by fucking Michael, but that wasn't true. Michael would demand James work the tills in a supermarket before he'd insist James fuck him in lieu of rent. That sort of expectation was completely outside the character of a man who'd given James his own bed and even installed a deadbolt on his bedroom door.
Besides, James enjoyed fucking Michael, and that made it mutual fun instead of business. Since that time on the sofa, James had no trouble coming—the door was open, all he needed was sufficient stimulation to pass through. During his five years on the game, James had grown comfortable with other clients. But Michael was more than just a client, and they had passed beyond mere comfort...
James was watching music videos and wondering if his discontent with the entire Top Forty signaled the advent of old age when his mobile rang. It was Kevin.
"So where you been? Rumor round the Hitching Post is you're dead." Kevin paused. "You dead, mate? That it?"
"Fucking dead," James agreed, heart speeding up. He couldn't help himself; just the sound of Kevin's voice was a tonic to both soul and cock. The night he'd drunkenly made out with Kevin, James had been too emotionally overwhelmed to offer more than a weak hard-on. But whenever he heard Kevin's voice on the mobile, James's cock leapt to attention, vibrating with hope. "What about you? Thought you were poking Silas's ass." Silas was Cunt-Boyfriend's real name.
"Oh, he buggered off, didn't he?" Kevin sounded unconcerned. "Low-rent tosser. I says to meself, Kev, love, you've got to change your type. Get yourself a pretty little love doll. Rosy cheeks and rosy ass and a sweet mouth to suck my cock."
James tried not to take the flattery too much to heart. Kevin had said this sort of thing before, always when fresh off a breakup, when the attentions of a lovely young man seemed especially needful. Yet he'd never done more than cup James's ass in his hands and rub up against him on the dance floor. Kevin liked tall, hard-bodied, silent types who communicated mostly with their tree-trunk cocks. James suspected he was nothing but a cupcake to Kevin, a pretty frosted mouthful to a man who craved red meat.
"So. The Hitching Post. Full of zombies already and due to get worse after dark. Planning to take your dead ass out here? Might manage to liven it up," Kevin said, managing to sound seductive and bored all at the same time.
"Hang on. Get your story straight. Is my ass dead or rosy?"
"It's dead now. It'll be rosy within five meters of me."
James snorted. He'd been in love with Kevin Darden since he was eighteen. And when James was twenty, Kevin had finally stopped thinking of him as a puppy and actually begun paying attention to him. One night they'd killed a bottle of Bacardi and kissed until Kevin unzipped, pulled it out and beat off while sucking James's neck. By then James had been limp—his usual problem, an inability to seal the deal with an unfamiliar partner—but Kev never seemed to notice. James had yet to decide if that meant Kev was extraordinarily polite, refusing to draw attention to an awkward truth, or just extraordinarily self-absorbed.
"I'll be there," James said. Only after he disconnected did he remember he was missing four front teeth.
***
The Hitching Post was meant to evoke American westerns from the 1940s through the late 1960s. Pictures of John Wayne dotted the walls—from Stagecoach to True Grit —as well as other American cowboys like Gene Autry, Clint Eastwood, and Roy Rogers. Even iconic horses like Trigger, Silver and Scout had their own framed photos. But the only pictured female was Dale Evans, and her wall was favored by drag queens and rent boys like James. He took his
He wondered how Michael would feel about that. For that matter, James wondered what anyone might call their current arrangement. James lived in the Shepherd's Bush flat yet did nothing to pay his way, unless cooking counted. He could pretend he earned his keep by fucking Michael, but that wasn't true. Michael would demand James work the tills in a supermarket before he'd insist James fuck him in lieu of rent. That sort of expectation was completely outside the character of a man who'd given James his own bed and even installed a deadbolt on his bedroom door.
Besides, James enjoyed fucking Michael, and that made it mutual fun instead of business. Since that time on the sofa, James had no trouble coming—the door was open, all he needed was sufficient stimulation to pass through. During his five years on the game, James had grown comfortable with other clients. But Michael was more than just a client, and they had passed beyond mere comfort...
James was watching music videos and wondering if his discontent with the entire Top Forty signaled the advent of old age when his mobile rang. It was Kevin.
"So where you been? Rumor round the Hitching Post is you're dead." Kevin paused. "You dead, mate? That it?"
"Fucking dead," James agreed, heart speeding up. He couldn't help himself; just the sound of Kevin's voice was a tonic to both soul and cock. The night he'd drunkenly made out with Kevin, James had been too emotionally overwhelmed to offer more than a weak hard-on. But whenever he heard Kevin's voice on the mobile, James's cock leapt to attention, vibrating with hope. "What about you? Thought you were poking Silas's ass." Silas was Cunt-Boyfriend's real name.
"Oh, he buggered off, didn't he?" Kevin sounded unconcerned. "Low-rent tosser. I says to meself, Kev, love, you've got to change your type. Get yourself a pretty little love doll. Rosy cheeks and rosy ass and a sweet mouth to suck my cock."
James tried not to take the flattery too much to heart. Kevin had said this sort of thing before, always when fresh off a breakup, when the attentions of a lovely young man seemed especially needful. Yet he'd never done more than cup James's ass in his hands and rub up against him on the dance floor. Kevin liked tall, hard-bodied, silent types who communicated mostly with their tree-trunk cocks. James suspected he was nothing but a cupcake to Kevin, a pretty frosted mouthful to a man who craved red meat.
"So. The Hitching Post. Full of zombies already and due to get worse after dark. Planning to take your dead ass out here? Might manage to liven it up," Kevin said, managing to sound seductive and bored all at the same time.
"Hang on. Get your story straight. Is my ass dead or rosy?"
"It's dead now. It'll be rosy within five meters of me."
James snorted. He'd been in love with Kevin Darden since he was eighteen. And when James was twenty, Kevin had finally stopped thinking of him as a puppy and actually begun paying attention to him. One night they'd killed a bottle of Bacardi and kissed until Kevin unzipped, pulled it out and beat off while sucking James's neck. By then James had been limp—his usual problem, an inability to seal the deal with an unfamiliar partner—but Kev never seemed to notice. James had yet to decide if that meant Kev was extraordinarily polite, refusing to draw attention to an awkward truth, or just extraordinarily self-absorbed.
"I'll be there," James said. Only after he disconnected did he remember he was missing four front teeth.
***
The Hitching Post was meant to evoke American westerns from the 1940s through the late 1960s. Pictures of John Wayne dotted the walls—from Stagecoach to True Grit —as well as other American cowboys like Gene Autry, Clint Eastwood, and Roy Rogers. Even iconic horses like Trigger, Silver and Scout had their own framed photos. But the only pictured female was Dale Evans, and her wall was favored by drag queens and rent boys like James. He took his
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