"You'd get half of the bid, plus you'd get to keep the clothes."
I didn't know that I was all that wild about being auctioned off, but I had to admit that I liked—no, I loved—Zhao Zeng's clothes. That was what had attracted me to him in the first place. His black satin shirt and trousers were cut so well—and so provocatively—on him that I could hardly keep my eyes off him, even though I'd come into Hong Kong's Déjà Vu bar on Staunton Street on a members-only Friday night with a Dutch businessman who had picked me up in the lobby of the Butterfly on Wellington hotel and asked me to go up to his room with him.
He obviously had misjudged that I was a male hooker when I'd only ducked into that hotel lobby to get out of a brief rain shower, but I was horny, liked older men, and he was good looking, so I went with him.
It wasn't the money part of Zhao Zeng's auction deal, when he got around to pitching the deal to me, that turned me off. I had found the misconception that I was a rent boy arousing. The Dutch guy, who I was happy to find was pretty limber, had given me 500 Hong Kong dollars—the equivalent of about $60 U.S.—to go up to his room and bang him hard. Which I did. He made so much of a to do about my musculature that I took him with me standing in the middle of the hotel room and supporting his weight wrapped around my pelvis, his legs hooked above my rump, and pulled him on and off my cock while he whimpered and gasped. Before I was finished, I made him lower his torso toward the carpet and grab my ankles, and I jack hammered down into him, with him crying that I was too big for him to take but that, no, he didn't want me to stop. At least that's what I took what he was blubbering in Dutch to mean.
I almost laughed when he offered me another 1,000 Hong Kong dollars to stay the night.
I'll bet he couldn't stand up straight the next day, although he seemed to manage well enough for a second round before we left the hotel room. I put him into a party mood, and he wanted to show me off, he said. So we were doing the rounds of the gay bars, where we would sit for a drink or two with his cronies and he'd let them cop a feel of me so they could appreciate how lucky he was that night. He also, I think, was trying to impress me with his private club membership privileges on the island. He said he wanted me to stay with him for a while and maybe to take a cruise to Macao on his yacht.
I told him no thanks and, no, it wasn't because he was twice my age.
He asked me if it was because of the young, well-dressed Chinese man I'd been sharing looks with at the Déjà Vu, and I'd said that, of course it wasn't. But I was lying about that.
So, when Zhao came up with his proposal, it wasn't the fucking older men part that had me hesitating—I'd just done a middle-aged, albeit in shape, Dutch businessman for 500 HK. What had me going was being sold like a piece of meat without me picking out who I wanted to fuck. Zhao Zeng had told me I could turn the trick down, though, if I didn't like who had given the highest bid for me.
But then I wouldn't get the clothes. And it was the clothes that I was interested in having. I could buy clothes back in Bangkok, where I was a Marine guard in the U.S. Embassy—and well-cut clothes too. But I hadn't seen anything there that could show off my physique as good as what Zhao Zeng wore into the Déjà Vu bar showed off his.
It was only when Zhao took me to his apartment above his shop later that night that I found out that he himself had designed and cut the clothes he was wearing.
I was on R&R from Bangkok. There was plenty of guy-on-guy action to be had there, of course, and I had become a favorite in the gay expatriate crowd and the upper classes of the Thai because of how I was built, keeping toned up in tip-top shape because I was a twenty-year-old Marine and that was part of being a Marine, and because of what I was packing—and how I was able to use it. But I was always looking over my shoulder in Thailand, wondering when I'd be outed and sent home. Going home wasn't a big problem with me—even leaving the Marines wasn't. My dad owned a garage, and I liked tinkering with cars—and also tinkering with men who owned sports cars and who were willing to pay for their fucks. But I'd found a good thing in Asia with the free-and-loose societies here, and I didn't want to have to go home before I'd had a lot of fun.
I'd heard I could have a lot of fun if I took my R&R in Hong Kong. And I'd only been here the better part of a day and already had topped a hotel bell boy—who had a hole I almost needed mining equipment to get into, although, once in, he knew how to maximize my pleasure—and a Dutch businessman, the latter profitably, so I could see that Hong Kong was going to be a lot of fun.
I liked fucking Asians. It was particularly nice in Bangkok, where a lot of the men were such little guys that it would seem that my thick eight and a half inches would devastate them, but who always proved they could take me and make it interesting—just like the Butterfly hotel bell hop had done—and would continue to do every night I returned to the hotel.
Zhao was compact like a lot of the Thai guys were. He was a good foot shorter than I was, but that didn't make him a midget. I was a full six foot five. And, although he was perfectly proportioned, he was slim and what I'd call willowy. Again, this was a lot like many of the Thai guys. I was to find too that he was more experienced in sex than the Thai men I had fucked. My size intimidated most of them, and they tended to become like rag dolls underneath me when I fucked them. Zhao took control and played every aspect of me in the sex act. He wasn't afraid of my muscled body and big dick—he worshipped them and showed that he fully appreciated how I had developed my body
The Dutch businessman was meaty in comparison, although I wouldn't have called him fat. And he was a lot older. He was good looking, though, and had been the boldest of the guys in the lobby of the Butterfly, which unknown to me was a pickup spot, in approaching me, so it had been fine going with him. And he proved to be flexible enough to make the fuck fun.
In comparison with Zhao for what I liked, though, he was second or third best.
He also was philosophical about my changing horses at the bar. He'd had a standing fuck like he said he'd never gotten before, and I'd been very good to him for his 500 HK.
My eyes went to Zhao as soon as he entered the bar. He looked both sexy and elegant in his black satin outfit, which fit him like a glove. He came to the bar and, after ordering a drink, turned and surveyed the room. The Dutch businessman and I were at a table with some of the Dutchmen's business cronies, and Zhao's eyes lingered when they moved to me. They slitted, and I could tell that he was seeing the two of us together. So, I got up from my table and slid up to the bar, where we could contemplate being together closer.
I could hear him gasp from across the room when I stood and he'd been able to see the extra thickness running down my left thigh from my groin inside my tight jeans. I didn't know at the time that this had such an effect on him—but at the time I didn't know how expert he was in how clothes fit a man.
"American?" he asked when I'd bellied up to the bar to refresh my drink and that of the Dutchman, as well, who now was lost in trading business stories with the other businessmen at our table.
"Yes," I answered. "Visiting from Bangkok, where I work at the American embassy."
"You are in superb shape. Do you do modeling?"
"I haven't. I must ask whether you are a model yourself, though—and where did you get those great clothes?"
"No, I'm not a model. Would you like to see more clothes like this—maybe some you can try on yourself—at my flat nearby?"
"You don't engage in much foreplay, do you?"
