"You look like a cop." The kid was standing at the edge of the street, bent over to talk through the open car window.
Sam Avery smiled. "I am a cop." The kid's expression didn't change. "But I'm not here to bust you."
The kid's expression still didn't change. "So what do you want?"
Sam pointed his index finger at the car pulling away in front of them, then jerked it backwards at the line of cars behind his. It was Friday night and the line was exceptionally long. "Sex. Same as those other guys."
The kid studied him briefly. "All right. Ten for a blow job in your car. Fifty for my ass. And you rent the room."
Sam pulled three twenties from his wallet and held them out. "This okay?" The kid nodded. A horn honked behind them. "Then get in."
The kid jumped in and closed the door. Sam pulled away from the young men spaced along the street. During the day, it was a major avenue. At night, this stretch belonged to the men. The women were two miles further south. The police swept the area every couple of months, driving the hookers and hustlers to other parts of town for a few days, but no operations were scheduled for the next few weeks.
"You got a place?" the kid asked. "I know a cheap motel where they don't ask questions."
"Sure." The kid gave him the address of the Victory Motel. Sam knew the place. It had been a hot sheet motel through his cop father's and grandfather's days.
Sam studied the kid in the glow from the passing streetlights. He was at least 18, unlike too many of the boys Sam had seen in the line tonight, and slightly built, with vaguely Mexican features.
"What's your name?" Sam asked.
The kid looked at him. "Pete. What about you?"
"Sam." He almost held out his hand, but caught himself. This was his first time, but he knew you didn't shake hands with hustlers.
The Victory Motel was a pair of two-story 1950s cinderblock buildings facing each other across a decayed parking lot. The buildings had rust-stained concrete stairs and balconies, wrought iron railings long overdue for painting, window air conditioners inside steel cages, and steel doors, painted battleship gray.
The desk clerk was a bored middle-aged black lady. She hardly looked away from the YouTube sermon she was watching on the ancient CRT bolted to the counter. "Twenty dollars for two hours." She took his money and handed him an old-fashioned key.
Room B-117 was on the ground floor of the left building. Sam opened the door, reached into the darkness, and flipped a switch. Lights came on and he stepped into a small shabby room with worn shag carpet and curtains that looked like burlap bags.
Pete followed him, pushing the door shut, shaking it in the frame to make sure it was closed, then turning the deadbolt.
There wasn't much furniture: a double bed with sheets and pillowcases, but no blankets or quilts, a nightstand on each side of the bed, a splintered plywood dresser, and two straight chairs. Doors in the back wall opened into a tiny closet and a primitive bathroom. Battered lamps on the nightstands provided the only light. A cracked mirror was mounted over the dresser. A cheap print of a lighthouse hung on the wall behind the bed.
Pete and Sam stood still, looking each other over. Sam was 6' tall and weighed 200 pounds, with blue eyes, short brown hair, and a weightlifter's build.
In the light, Pete looked smaller and more Mexican than he had in the car, four inches shorter and 60 pounds lighter than Sam, with light olive skin, brown eyes, and thick combed-back black hair. A few silky-fine hairs on his upper lip formed an almost-invisible mustache. Despite his small size, he showed a wiry strength and a fighter's grace. Animal cunning lurked behind his dark eyes. A long-time street kid.
"What now?" Pete asked. "You didn't pay 60 bucks to look at me." Without waiting for an answer, he kicked off his sneakers, stripped off his skimpy tank top, then unzipped his skin-tight blue jean cutoffs, pushed them down around his ankles, and stepped out of them. He wasn't wearing any underwear.
Sam's boner grew as he stared at Pete's crotch. The boy's uncut cock and balls were darker than the rest of his skin, growing out of a thick black bush. He looked challengingly at Sam. "Come on. Let's do it."
Pete's cock stiffened when Sam cupped his balls. It was unusually long and thick for a guy his size, with a conical head peeking from its foreskin.
Sam wrapped his other hand around Pete's cock, stroking his shaft and gripping his foreskin with his thumb and index finger, rubbing the fleshy hood over his cock-head. This was the first time he'd touched another man's hard cock. It felt even better than he'd imagined.
