"I don't think you'll find it that easy. I think . . . oh, here they are."
Randy broke off his sentence and went into a pose at the semicircular banquette seat in the dimly lit hotel bar. He'd drawn attention to the entrance of the bar, where three men were standing, about to enter. I knew one of them, of course—Angelo, my pimp. He was Randy's and my pimp to be more exact. The other two evidently were the two businessmen he'd lined Randy and me up to service. This was their hotel. Some sort of car parts manufacturing convention was going on here at this Baltimore hotel.
One of the men looked like he'd attend this sort of auto parts convention—big boned and big bodied, a blustery sort of guy, with a crooked nose, borderline ugly, florid face, and balding. He wore his suit uncomfortably, like he was more accustomed to be in coveralls on the assembly line. Looks were deceiving, I knew, though. I wouldn't blow him off as being the lesser of the two for a big tip. He didn't look like he did this regularly—more like the guilty feeling it would give him would loosen up his wallet for a good tip.
The other guy looked like he worked out a lot and would give a guy a good workout—like he'd expect good service without expectation of a guilt tip. He looked like he thought a lot of himself and spent a lot of time to make sure that others thought a lot of him too—muscular, walking on the balls of his feet, wavy, well-groomed hair, a carefully groomed permanent five-o'clock shadow look popular with male models. The first guy looked to be in his late forties, the "looker" appearing to be late thirties, but probably five years older than he looked.
Angelo? Well, he was thin and wiry, sneaky looking—sneaky more than in looks, though—appearing to be every bit the slimy two-bit hood that he was. Alligator shoes, sharkskin suit—reptilian in every way.
As they approached, both johns looking Randy and me over well, I wondered, as I always did when I went out on a job with another rent-boy, how the two would make their pick. Randy and I were much the same in appearance—both bottle blonds, with good faces and bodies. But where Randy was a bit boyish and undersized, I was more solid, a bit taller and more muscular. I'd been told we had the same, welcoming smile, but my eyes were hazel and Randy's a watery blue. Of the two, I think Randy would give the impression of submitting to be manhandled, overwhelmed, quickly surrendering, whereas I'd provide more exercise and sass.
This being the case, I guess I wasn't surprised that the older guy slid in beside Randy and the younger athlete beside me. Angelo sat on a stool at the open end of the banquette. "John and John," he said, indicating the two johns. Neither Randy nor I were surprised they both were named John—or so we were told. I quickly thought of my guy as John 1 and Randy's as John 2. "Steve and Mike," he then said, pointing to me as Steve and Randy as Mike. Not our real names either. John 2 repeated our names and John 1 just nodded knowingly, once again indicating that John 2 was a neophyte at this and John 1 wasn't.
Angelo stayed around for one drink and until the two Johns signaled they were satisfied and each passed him $200. Randy and I'd each get $75 of that. If we didn't like the split, that was just tough. Early on I'd complained about that and the split I got was a lip.
The four of us had another drink and some nervous small talk. The older guy wanted a third drink and was ordering, when John 1 said, "I've had enough drink. Want to see my room, Steve?"
"Sure," I said, and we left Randy and John 2 in the bar. I didn't really think they'd last the third drink, though. Randy wanted to get on with it and move on to doing something else tonight. He had his hand on John 2's basket under the cocktail table, and I could see that the old guy was heating up.
John 1 was as athletic, demanding, and impersonal as I'd thought he would be. He was just there for the exercise and to get off. He had a good body and a fine cock. I didn't have any trouble performing for him. After we were naked with some standing in a clutch, undressing each other, and frotting our cocks hard while kissing, he sat down at the foot of the bed, spread his legs, pressed me down to a kneeling position, and held my head in position while I sucked his cock.
We then went through a see-saw progression of him lifting me and settling me on his cock in his lap, facing him, and me bouncing on his shaft until he growled for me to reach back for the carpet. I arched back, with my head and hands pressed to the floor and him pulling me off and on his cock with a strong hand grip on my hips. At his command, I raised my torso, he lay back on the bed, and I rode the shaft for a while. Then, on command, I arched back to the floor for him to take over the fuck for a while. Eventually, he told me to come and I did, and then he came inside me in his condom.
This was where the surprise came in, though. As I was building up to come, I heard a card key in the door, and John 2 entered the room. He had trousers and a shirt on but not for long. As John 1 finished me, John 2 was getting naked and pulling on his cock. The two of them were pulling a two-fer. John 1 pushed me off onto the floor, got up and pulled on his trousers and shirt and went out the door—to go do Randy, I gathered.
I gathered that, because John 2 then did me. He wasn't either the athlete or the looker that John 1 was, and he had a paunch on him. But he also had the thicker, longer cock, and he made the most of it. He was all business and in it for a quick and efficient ejaculation. He hauled me up from the floor, bent me over, belly to bed, mounted and penetrated me, and took me hard in a fast, deep pump as he grasped my hips with his hands.
I thought that was going to be it, but it wasn't. John 2 wanted his blow job after the fuck, and then he wanted another fuck, this time pushing me onto the bed at the foot on my back, slapping my legs apart, and taking me in a swift missionary position.
He gave me a good tip afterward—even considering they'd taken a two-fer—and gruffly told me in one breath that I'd been a good lay and in the next to dress and get out of his room.
I went back down to the hotel bar, where Angelo was waiting for us. Randy wasn't there. I wasn't surprised. Whereas John 2 was a "bang-bang, thanks and get out" kind of client, John 1 got his exercise in a fuck. But I was wrong. Randy had already come down to the bar and left the hotel. I knew this because of what Angelo said next.
"Randy tells me you plan on cutting loose and going back to Philadelphia."
"Thinking about it, yeah," I answered guardedly. I knew he wouldn't take it well, which is why I hadn't said anything to him about it yet. I hadn't planned to tell him at all; I'd planned just to split and disappear. I had been a fool to mention it to Randy. Earlier in the evening was the first time I'd mentioned it to anyone. "There's a Chippendales show forming there at a club and I've been offered a place on the line," I offered.
"Here, come with me a minute," Angelo said, rising from his seat at the bar. I already was standing or maybe I wouldn't have been so easy for him to move out of the bar and to the men's room. In the men's room, he sucker punched me—one to the solar plexus when I wasn't expecting it and an upper cut to my chin as I was going down. He hauled me by my hair, pushed me into a stall, locked it behind us, slammed my head into the porcelain tank top a couple of times to daze me further, jerked my trousers down, mounted me, and fucked me hard.
