One might ask what I, a young American, was doing in a seedy bar and male bordello on a dusty street in Peshawar, Pakistan, walking down the stairs from the rooms overhead after having serviced a Pakistani military officer. And, indeed, that's exactly what the fine-looking fellow in a well-pressed safari suit who was lounging against the bar asked me when I reached the bar and positioned myself at the perfect nonthreatening, but possibly available, distance from him.
He was quite presentable indeed, and an American himself, as revealed by his accent, and he was giving me a friendly smile, so I picked one of my less acerbic responses. "I'm here having a drink, if anyone is paying."
That, of course, was the very shortest version of how I came to be here. The longer version was rather painful and wholly unflattering, so I didn't talk about it much. The truthful version is that I had been working in male porn films in Jersey City, of all places, and the director of one of my movies said he was taken with me and my commanding stage presence, and did I know that the best pay for male porn stars was to be had in Karachi—of all places?
I didn't know that, and I didn't take into account that the director was a South Asian himself and one with a particularly shifty-eyed appearance. He offered to pay my way to Karachi, saying he happened to be going there himself, and I bit. Barely there, he promptly sold me to a chieftain in the unmannered tribal areas in the north, along the Afghanistan border, and I spent a good three months in his harem being defiled by all and sundry. When he had grown tired of me, I was dumped on the streets of Peshawar one early morning to look out for myself. I was saving for airfare back to the States, and this bar and bordello was where I was doing the saving, such as it was. It certainly was a step up from being tumbled on a dirty rug in a mud hut by sometimes two burly men at once—although not much more than a baby step up.
You thus could say that I was in pretty desperate straits and open to almost any half-way reasonable suggestion for changing my lot even slightly for the better. And that's why Steve's proposition, when he got around to pitching it, didn't sound half bad.
"I'm standing drinks over here, if you're interested, yes," the handsome, well-muscled man of about thirty said. "My name is Steve, by the way. And you're . . .?"
"Ken. You can call me Ken," I said, as I moved over beside him, close enough for him to make a move if he wanted to. "And I'd do almost anything for a gin tonic," I added, remembering one of my most frequently used pickup lines.
"Almost anything?" Steve asked right on cue, and the palm of his hand went to the small of my back.
"Well, 2,000 rupees plus that gin and tonic would get you anything," I said. I turned and smiled at him, and he grinned back at me as his hand moved down to cup my buttocks.
He fucked me on the same narrow bed in the small room upstairs where I had sucked off the military officer not more than thirty minutes earlier.
Steve was a fast mover at the bar after our signaling was over; I hardly had time to down my gin tonic before he had me twisted to where he was letting my butt know he had a raging hard on—and quite a good-sized one too—and he had one hand on my basket and the other running up under my shirt and searching for my nipples.
There were only a couple of other men in the bar. A few were enjoying the view, but none were showing any surprise, having seen me more or less in this position a couple of times a day. I'd seen the dicks of everyone I could see from the bar myself on days when they could scrape up the necessary rupees.
When we got to the room, he told me to strip—all of the way—but quickly, if you please. He wanted to see me in the altogether, he said, but time was short. While I undressed, he did so as well, neatly folding his clothes. He had an athlete's body, tanned and perfect except for a few scars on an arm and his side that could be either gunshot or stab wounds.
Perhaps I should have put a halt to everything then. But I didn't. He already had money out and on the nightstand—somewhat more than the requested 2,000 rupees.
"Do lube and condoms come with the quoted price?" he asked.
I opened the top drawer of the nightstand, and he leaned over me and reached in and took out a professional-size tube of lubricant and two condoms. He held the condoms up for me to see.
"I put 6,000 rupees down," he said. "We square so far?"
I nodded and leaned back against the side wall, my shoulder blades touching the cool, moist mud brick, and rolled my hips up at the edge of the bed and spread my legs.
He fucked me hard and fast and deep and expertly. And I gasped at the thickness and depth and rapid pistoning and came a long time before he did.
"Stretch out on your stomach," he said in a low voice after he'd spent his first condom. I did so and he sat on the bed beside my hips and started massaging my back and thighs and butt.
It felt nice, something I didn't usually get from a client except for the few who fancied they were in love with me and thought they could, eventually, convince me I was in love with them too if they treated me right. This mostly meant they wanted their fucks for free. I could have been in love with an exotic prince if he'd swept in and taken me away to his mountain palace. But none had ever ventured into the bordello in this section of the city to my knowledge.
Steve ran his hand between my thighs. I sighed and opened my legs to him, and he encircled my cock in a fist and started rubbing my piss slit with a lubricated thumb.
And while he was slowly masturbating me, he offered to be my saving prince.
"You married to this place?" he asked.
"Not particularly."
