The middle-aged man in the suit was crowding me at the bar at Harvey's in New York's Chelsea district and talking dirty to me. I was smiling and nodding, but my eyes kept drifting over to the table, where a guy a bit younger and far better looking and built was giving me the eye. If he'd just been a bit more definite in his signaling, I'd have broken away from the suit and gone over to his table. It was the middle of the day, so traffic was light at Harvey's. If I was going to eat that night, though, I was going to have to attract some paying action. I wasn't really a pro at this, but there were a couple of days a month I was so stretched for cash that I had to turn a trick or two. This was one of those times. I needed to turn the freelance writing into something more steady, if I was going to hang on for much longer in New York. I wasn't anxious to have to go back to New Orleans, where prospects weren't much better.
I looked down at the twenty and five spots the suit was laying out on the bar. This—$25—and the beer was what he was offering for a blow job. I gave him another once over. He wasn't so bad—pushing fifty maybe and could stand to lose a couple of pounds, but his face wasn't too bad and his suit was clean and cut well. And he looked like he'd be easy to control.
"It will have to be here, in back," I said. "I'm not going anywhere with you for twenty-five. And it will be quick."
"Sounds good to me," the suit said. I put my hand on the two bills, and the suit put a hand on top of mine. His nails looked like they'd been manicured. Maybe I was underestimating what it was worth to him. But a deal was a deal. I looked over to Craig, behind the bar, who I knew had one eye on us. He looked around the bar—you never knew when a vice cop would be sitting and watching, but the guy at the table didn't look like a vice cop to me, or to Craig either, apparently. He gave a slight nod and inclined his head toward a beaded curtain-covered doorway to the corridor of rooms behind the barroom. Craig would get five of the twenty-five. I knew that back corridor well, as Craig knew what I needed when I came in here in an afternoon—never at night, as the clientele at night tended to be rough and the pros staked out their territory here at night.
Craig and I had an understanding. Once a month I showed up here at closing and drank a complimentary beer while he closed up. Then he took me into a room in the back and doggie fucked me. Once a month. For that and a small cut of my take he looked the other way and aided and abetted me—and gave me protection—when I had to come in here a couple of times late in the month to turn a trick or two to make it through the month.
This wasn't a bar where blacks usually came—either bottom or top seeking—and thus I was a novelty here and probably attracted more favorable attention than the white rent-boys coming in here later in the day. But then I wasn't full black, more what they called coffee and cream—with as many French, Dutch, and native South American features and ancestors as West African.
I pushed away from the bar—and out of the loose embrace the suit had me in, his hand on the arm around my back having dropped from my waist to my butt when I'd accepted the bills on the bar top. "Follow me through that door," I said, "the one with the beaded curtain."
The suit looked at Craig, who nodded at him.
As I moved toward the doorway, I looked over to the younger guy at the table. He was giving me a steady look, which I hoped meant "later." If there was a later with him, maybe I wouldn't have to come in here tomorrow. Maybe I'd make enough to see me to the receipt of the promised check from the
Plenitude
magazine. And if there was a later with the guy at the table, I wouldn't mind it being more than a blow job.
The suit positioned me crouching on my knees, back to the wall, in the dimly lit corridor beyond the beaded curtain, with him standing in front of me, his arms extended to the back wall, boxing me in. This wasn't my favorite position, as it gave the john more control over movement. I found it was the more experienced and demanding men who established this position rather than their back to the wall and me free to move in any direction I wanted or needed to anytime during the encounter. I had misjudged how easy this was going to be.
He established maximum control from the start, putting a hand against my bicep on either side, pressing me to the wall, while I unzipped him and took his half-hard cock out. He wasn't particularly large, but he wasn't small either. I did a double take, though, to find that he had a PA ring in his cut cock head. He was far from being a novice.
I cupped his balls and ran my tongue up and down the sides of his cock as it engorged and he whispered, "Yes, yes, take it. Good, good," in a breathy voice. "Swallow it. Deep-throat it," he growled.
I did, and everything was just fine for a while. I set up a rhythm of swallowing and then pulling back and sucking on the head, letting the PA ring click against my teeth so that we both could hear and appreciate the sound of it. But when he took his hands off my biceps and moved them to grab my head, I knew he was going to take this downtown—and he did.
We had about ten minutes of him face fucking me hard, him pulling my head into him as he thrust inside me, penetrating me deep and making me gag before he released. He only released when there was a danger of him coming; he wanted to get more than his money's worth. When he came, he creamed my face, let loose of my head, and let me just sort of collapse down at the base of the wall, as he zipped up, turned, and pushed back through the beaded curtain.
I remained there for a few minutes, breathing heavily, licking his cum from around my mouth, and moaning slightly. In some ways that had been enjoyable, in others not so much. I liked giving up all control, but I didn't like the back of my throat bruised quite that much or my teeth endangered by the click of the PA ring. I counted my lucky stars that he hadn't been hung, but that wasn't a twenty-five-dollar blow job. That was worth no less than fifty.
I went to the men's room and cleaned up my face and straightened my clothes. He'd pulled my T-shirt over my head as I went down on my knees. I'd unzipped my shorts myself—and I'd beat myself off while he face fucked me, coming before he did. I had a little cleanup work to do on the front of my shorts.
When I felt presentable, I reentered the barroom through the beaded curtain. There was no evidence of the suit. He'd gotten what he wanted and had left. The man was still sitting at the table, however, his eyes going to me as soon as I pushed through the curtain. I'll admit that my eyes had gone directly to his table too, hoping he'd still be there, and he was.
There were two beers on the table in front of him. I walked back to the bar, but before I got there, Craig gestured toward the room and said, "Guy at the table over there is buying you a beer if you'll go sit with him."
Bingo.
* * * *
"Jacques. You pronounce it just like J-A-C-K, but it's spelled J-A-C-Q-U-E-S." I didn't see why I shouldn't be open with him about my name—or anything else he wanted. He had a nice smile, and from what I could see of him, he had a good body. A great body if you took into account that he was probably in his mid-thirties. Although he was seated, I could tell that he'd be tall when he stood—big hands. He was starting to go bald, his forehead being quite high in the middle. But his honesty in not hiding that was fine with me. His face was good—his features rugged, but masculine. And, as I'd already noted, he had a nice smile—not predatory. Best of all, though, I had found that there was a hundred-dollar bill laying next to my beer glass when I sat down. That was worth me being open with him.
"I'm Phil. Jacques. That sounds French, but you don't—"
"It is. My family is from Martinique, which was Dutch and French. And I'm here by way of New Orleans—a couple of generations back."
"I could tell that you had some sort of accent. It sounds nice. Sexy."
"And you could tell that I'm black, but not completely so. My people came to Martinique as slaves from Senegal, but, once there, they mixed with the Dutch and French. So, I'm quite a mix."
"Quite a mix, indeed. The best of all the parts. You're a beautiful young man, Jacques. I'm from Iowa. I guess if you shared so can I. Scandinavian before that, I guess. What brings you to New York from New Orleans, Jacques? I like saying that name. I'd think you would be perfect in a New Orleans setting. Not that you aren't perfect right here too."
"Thanks. I'm a writer. Or trying to be. It's hard freelancing here in New York. I don't know how much longer I can hang on here."
