Bright Star
Chapter 1 -- Working the Strip
I'm standing in front of the Venetian, surveying the foot and car traffic streaming by on The Strip on the warm summer evening. I'm dressed in my favorite "working outfit" - white tennis shorts, a red white & blue American flag-style T-shirt, and Nike high-top tennis shoes. The tennis shorts are a size too small, just the way I want, like a second layer of skin. They show off my butt just right -- you can clearly see the deep cleavage between my round, firm buns. The legs of the shorts tightly clench my muscular thighs. While I'm a little on the short side -- 5' 7" -- my legs are my second-best asset, after my bubble butt. All muscle, from my thick thighs to firm, full calves, a generous dusting of light brown, curly hair over my desert-tanned skin. My shirt is a silk tee similarly under-sized that shows off my flat, abs-ribbed stomach, and pectoral packed chest. The sleeves are cut at the seam, to better show off my wiry, brawny arms. In all modesty, I'm built. I should be -- I've been working out since I was 13, and every bit of my body is buffed and toned. I'm 19 years old now, and I'm told I'm pretty good in the looks department, too. I have close-cropped light brown hair with blonde highlights from the sun -- and a little chemical encouragement. My face bears my Nordic ancestry. Deep blue eyes gaze piercingly, framed by a sharp, short nose. To the casual observer -- the moms and pops in town from Dubuque Iowa, I look like an all-American jock, just as I want. To the closer observer though, you would notice the legs of my tennis shorts have been shortened to just under the crack of my ass, the side seams of the leg are split just a little, and a few slits in the seat expose just a little of the skin beneath; I'm not wearing anything underneath. To the closer observer, the outfit gives the appearance more of "come fuck me" hotpants than the tennis shorts you would expect to see on someone into sports. And I figure if you're looking at my ass that close to realize all that, you're looking for some ass. You see, I'm not an all-American jock. Yeah, by day I'm a Sophomore at UNLV - University of Nevada Las Vegas. I'm a Sports Medicine Major. I planned to be a Physical Therapist or Trainer. But by night I'm an all-American boy hustler, a Las Vegas call boy. I'm working The Strip, looking for a trick -- ideally some out-of-town businessman with a thick wallet willing to part with $500 bucks to bang my butt while he calls me slutty names. An unfortunate turn of events turned me into who I am, but I'll get to that.
Aha! I spot my first target -- a tall, dark-haired guy walking up briskly from the street towards the casino entrance. He's well dressed, in a tan sports jacket, white shirt, and dark pants. He feels my gaze and gives me a look over. I smile, tilt my head coyly, and give him a wink. He's taken back at first and looks away, but hesitates, and then looks back to be sure. I gaze directly into his eyes, giving him my "come on, you know you want it" look. He smiles and shakes his head ever so slightly in disbelief at my directness. After a moment's hesitation, he starts coming my way. I turn around and act like I'm checking out the traffic on the Strip. I don't want to look too interested. Besides, it gives him a chance to check out my ass.
"Excuse me?" I turn around to find him standing behind me. He's all smiles. He's pretty good-looking, maybe 40 to 45, and kept himself in good shape. His tall, lanky frame, long sharp nose, and big ears suggest he's probably hung pretty well. He gives the appearance of educated and moneyed. An attorney, back East I decide. "Excuse me," he repeats. "Are you from around here, Las Vegas?"
"Yep, I live here," I reply evenly. I glance down at his left hand. No wedding band; that's encouraging, and the long, sinewy fingers reaffirm my initial assessment that he's well-hung.
"Well," he begins carefully, "you probably know the town pretty well, then, huh?" I nod in the affirmative. "So" he continues slowly, "You probably know all the good places to go, then. Where's the best place to go to find a good piece of ass?"
"Well," I told him evenly, "you're looking at the best piece of ass in town right now."
He grins. "Thought so" he chuckles. He considers for a moment. "So," he asks, "what does the `best piece of ass in town' go for these days?"
I look him square in the eye. "You a cop?" I ask.
"No," he responds, chuckling. "Good question, though. I'm an attorney, from Connecticut. So, I know if you ask that and if I were a cop, I can't lie and say I'm not."
I break into a smile. "In that case, the best piece of ass in town goes for $500."
"Phew!" he whistles. "That's an expensive piece of ass."
I shrug my shoulders. "You can pay more and get less of a good time. And I gotta pay tuition somehow".
"You're in college?" he asks somewhat surprised.
"Yeah. I'm a Sophomore at UNLV" I respond.
"And you're working your way through school selling your ass on the Strip?" he asks incredulously.
I look him square in the eye. "Pays better than flipping burgers," I tell him. "Food's usually better, too."
"Man, things sure have changed since I was in school" he chuckles. He considers for a moment. "Well, I don't know . . ." he begins. "It's not exactly what I had in mind for the evening. I'm in town celebrating a divorce from a bitch of a wife. I'm still pissed off enough to not want any fresh cunt just yet ,and I have been curious what it would be like to . . . broaden my horizons. . . ." He rubs his chin with his hand. "Is $500 your best offer?" he asks quickly.
I like attorneys; they always get right down to business. "Well . . . I began slowly, "It's kind of a slow night . . . . and you seem like a nice guy . . . . I could make it $300."
"Hmmm," he considers. "Tell you what -- let me think about it. I've got to meet some friends inside. I'll probably be done in an hour or so. If you're still . . . available, maybe we can hook up for something."
"Well, I MIGHT still be here," I tell him curtly. "You never know."
"Well, nice talking to you, anyway," he says. "Good luck with school . . . and your . . . uh, business." I nod, and he heads off, toward the casino.
He MAY be back, I think. Maybe he has some friends to meet, but I doubt it. More likely he wants more time to decide if his curiosity and my ass are worth $300 while he tries his luck in the casino. As the evening progresses and the free casino drinks loosen his inhibitions, he'll keep thinking about it, considering, wondering what a little boy pussy might be like. My best shot is if he hits a losing streak and decides "screw this craps table that never seems to hit; I'm going to go screw some candy-boy ass." You know what they say about what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? Whether it's true or not, people believe it, and they'll try anything when they're in town.
"Hey! Look at the boy toy!" someone shouts and I turn to see a convertible full of college-age guys stopped in traffic in front of me. The guy in the front passenger seat is pointing at me. "Hey, check out the faggot, guys -- he looks like a fucking hooker, a guy hooker!" he laughs jeeringly. I glare intently at the pale, stocky jerk in the front passenger seat, deciding if it's worth the trouble of putting him in his place. "Look at the way his ass is practically hanging out of those shorts" he laughs.
I step closer to the car. "Excuse me?" I begin. "You're cruising down the Strip checking out other guys' asses, and you're calling ME a fucking fag? The expression on the jerk's face turns to apprehension as I get closer. "Sounds to me like YOU have some serious sexual orientation problems yourself, asshole!" I tell him forcefully, glaring at him.
He considers the situation for a moment, apparently also trying to decipher what I'd said. "Hey!" he begins, as he finally figures it out, "Are you calling me a homo or something?"
I hear someone in the back of the car crackup into laughter and my gaze shifts to the back of the car and focuses on a tall, lanky guy with long curly dark hair in the back seat. I see a hint of Native American in his handsome face. He's a total hottie. As he returns my gaze, our eyes lock. He has really intense dark eyes. He breaks out into a huge grin. I'm caught off guard -- something which doesn't happen often -- as his broad grin is friendly, as if he really likes what he sees. I smile carefully back, ever so slightly. His smile gets even bigger. "Careful, studmuffin," I thought, "don't give yourself away to your asshole buddies."
"Hey!" the jerk in the front shouts, "I asked you a question, fucker!"
"Give it up, Joe!" Mr. Hottie calls out, never taking his eyes off mine. "Just drop it, huh? Don't be such a fucking asshole!" The light changed and the car began to take off. The hottie in the back never takes his eyes off mine, turning around to maintain eye contact as the car moves away, still smiling, continuing to stare into my eyes, like he's fucking star-struck or something. I'm smiling back; there's something about him I totally like. He may be back later, too, I think. Find some excuse to get rid of his buddies, walking back, the bulge in his pants growing as he thinks about fucking my round, tight ass. But I know college guys -- no money to pay for shit, too full of ego to pay for pussy anyway. But he is a total hottie. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something I really like about him. If I make my money first from Mister Attorney, I might just give Mister Hottie a freebee for the hell of it.
What I want to tell you about is how I ended up this way. You see, I'm the last guy in the world who should have ended up this way. Just a year ago, when I was 18, I was the all-American jock, a student in Sports Medicine at UNLV. I was totally into sports. Sports Medicine - I wanted to be a Medical Therapist for a college football team. That was my second choice when I realized I could never play football because of my size, I'm only 5'7". It was my so-called "friends" who did this to me. All through my life, it's been my friends who I trusted as best buddies, that have fucked me over and made me the way I turned out. I was completely straight, and never a thought about guys in a sexual way. Well, not really. And yeah, I was still a virgin. But I was completely straight, I swear. I had dated girls but never did go all the way. I was deathly afraid I wouldn't . . . perform to their expectations. And yeah, I did check out guys in the showers, but I brushed it off as just checking out the competition. You see, sometimes the worst lies are the lies you tell yourself. Well anyway, I'm just here to tell my fucking story. So, here's it is:
My name is Jerry Carlson. I'm from Colorado Springs. Well, mostly. My dad is in the Air Force and we moved around a lot, but Colorado Springs is where I lived the longest and where I went to high school. As I'd said, I was always the jock, totally into sports and `guy things'. You know, like when you're pre-puberty? I was one of those guys totally into doing things with the other guys, and we all thought girls were stupid. Between 12 and 13, when most of my buddies' voices began to crack and deepen, they suddenly discovered girls and forgot they used to think they were stupid. My buddies began to spend more and more of their time chasing after them and doing stupid things like going to movies with them. I must admit it, I didn't get it. Nothing changed for me; I'd still rather hang with the guys and still thought girls were stupid and a complete waste of time. Now, don't get me wrong, I never messed around with guys, I just would rather hang out with the guys than waste any time around stupid girls. Well, OK, once; ONE time. I did "mess around" with another guy. It was when I was 13. Me and my best buddy Tony Walker were horsing around his tree fort. Out of the blue, Tony asked me if I'd started to "grow" yet.
"Huh? I asked, "What do you mean `grow'.
"Your dick, dickhead" he snickered. I looked at him, confused. "I'm starting to get hairy down there," he told me, nodding his head down toward his crotch. "And my dick keeps getting bigger -- longer, and thicker. And it keeps getting hard all the time."
I shrugged my shoulders. "So?" I asked.
"Well, how `bout you?" Tony asked. "Is yours getting hairy and bigger?"
"I blushed deeply. "Fuck! I dunno!" I said defensively. "It's not like I check out my dick all the time," I assured him. I had noticed in the showers in gym class, in quick, furtive glances that most other guys were growing hair down there, and their dicks and balls seemed to be hanging lower. I wondered when mine was going to change, I was still hairless down there, still with a little boy dick.
"Well, let's see it" Tony challenged, smiling sinisterly "You show me yours and I'll show you mine".
"Yeah, right!" I laughed off his challenge. "You first!"
"OK," Tony said nonchalantly. He stood up and with one quick tug pulled his shorts and underpants down to his ankles. His dick was already half hard, jutting out about 5 inches from dark, bushy-haired crotch. Something glistened from the piss slit of the angry red bulbous head. His ball sack was the biggest I'd ever seen, with large balls hanging down. I was shocked but mesmerized; I'd never seen a "grown-up" dick and balls so up close. "You can touch it if you want, man" Tony encouraged. It grows really big when I play with it."
"Ah man, that's gross" I assured him. "No way am I touching your dick. That's sick."
"Come on, man" Tony insisted gently. "Just play with it a little; it will grow really big". Indeed, his dick was growing longer on its own and suddenly jerked up as he twitched his muscle. "No one will ever know" he assures me. "I'll play with yours if you play with mine" he offered.
In the heat of the moment, that was the deal clincher for me. I leaned forward and hesitatingly, gently clenched his dick from the underside. Unable to stop, my fingers wrapped around it.
"Oh yeah!" Tony sighed. "Jerk it for me man, jack me, man." I slowly began to jack his dick, hypnotized by how it quickly grew longer and more rigid.
"I'm telling Mom and Dad!" shouted a whiney voice behind us. We both turned around, shocked. It was Tony's little brother Joey. He had climbed up the ladder to the tree fort and was looking in from the opening, his eyes wide with surprise.
"You little shit!" Tony screamed, lunging forward to grab him. But, Joey was too fast for him and scrambled down the ladder and ran toward the house.
"Mom! MOM!" Joey shouted. "Tony has his pants down with his thingie out, and Jimmy was PLAYING with it! The back screen door slammed shut as he ran inside the house.
"Oh shit!" Jerry exclaimed disgustingly, his hard dick quickly wilting. "We'd better get outta here," told me, squirming as he pulled his pants up and struggled to get them on. I was too shocked to move, my mouth open, my face bright red. I couldn't imagine anything worse than being caught with another boy with his pants down, and, worse yet, with my hand wrapped around his dick. I'd never be able to live it down. "Come ON, man!" Tony shouted at me, shaking me from paralysis. "We gotta get the fuck outta here before my mom comes out. We'll both say Joey is a liar."
But, by the time we scrambled down the ladder, Jerry's mother was standing on the back porch glaring at us, arms folded.
"Tony Owens Walker!" she shouted; Tony cringed at hearing his `full name, knowing it meant he was in deep shit. "What were you two doing?"
"Ah, nuthin', mom" Tony began, shuffling his feet, looking down at the ground. "Me and Jerry were just horsing around. We were, ugh, wrestling; we were wresting, and my pants came down" he attempted. Tony's mom took one look at the shame and guilt clearly evident on my face.
"Tony!" she began sternly, "You go up to your room right now, and wait for your father to come home". Tony dejectedly began to walk to the house, leaving me alone to face his mother. "And you, Jerry!" she scolded me. I'm surprised at you; you always seemed like such a nice boy." My shame and guilt deepened. "You'd better go home now" she told me. "But I'm calling your mother on the telephone.
I never quite knew if it was Tony trying to save himself or if it was Mrs. Walker trying to save the Walker family reputation. But, by the time the story had made it to my mom it was ME who had initiated the whole thing. Poor Tony, a fine Christian boy, had tried to tell me "No, No!" such things are wrong!", but I had talked him into it. My mother's look of shame only worsened my humiliation; I had failed her. My Dad beat my butt so hard I had trouble sitting down for a while. He told me what I had done was "filthy and disgusting", and that boys who do such filthy and disgusting things with other boys grow up to be "sissy-boys", "girlie-boys", "sick perverts", and he would not have a sissy boy for a son. He told me if I ever did something like that again he would throw me out of the house and that would be it; he would no longer have a son and I would no longer have a home, and I would end up being a "bag person", one of those shabby homeless people pushing a shopping cart around.
So, I got it: I was only allowed do those kinds of things with girls. I began to work out religiously, determined to be a sports star instead of some kind of "sissy boy". By the time I was 16, I was buffed, but I realized my growth hormones had stopped. I could bench press 250 pounds and was completely muscled, but I only weighed 140 pounds and was struggling to make it past 5' 6" in height. I realized I was way too small to make it in pro football, my favorite sport. That's when I began to consider other ways to have a career in sports and decided on Sports Medicine. And I kept my promise to my Dad; I never did anything `dirty' with other guys. I dated girls a little in high school, but nothing serious. I still was not very excited about girls; I still would rather hang with the guys. But nothing sexual, ever. Not until I screwed things up, anyway.
So, it started last year, in the fall. I enrolled at UNLV, which has a really good sports medicine department. I was doing really well grade wise and had made a lot of friends. One guy I hit it off really well was a guy named Scott. I was a sports assistant for the Runnin' Rebels, UNLV's football team. Scott was a Wide Receiver for the team. He and I had become good friends. He came across as a dumb jock', but was actually pretty smart and had a great sense of humor, a total crack-up. Think Seann William Scott (Stiffler', in the movie `American Pie'). Scott kind of looks like him, too. He and Colin, his friend since junior high back in Stockton, California, had shared a two-bedroom apartment during their freshman year. They had found a great deal on a three-bedroom apartment and Scott had invited me to share the place with them and take the third bedroom. It sounded great to me to get out of the dorms, so we began our sophomore year as roommates. All went well at first. Scott and I were both busy with the football team. Colin, while a Rebel fan, wasn't as much into sports. He was tall, dark-haired and lanky. An engineering student, he was much more serious than Scott and me. His parents apparently weren't as well off as Scott's, as Colin had to keep a job. He worked 20-30 hours a week at a Starbucks, so he wasn't around nearly as much. I wondered if he drank too much java at work, as he always seemed to stay up late studying.
And then I screwed up one night. We had good internet at the apartment. I was surfing the net and typed into Google's image search something about muscles, and one of the pictures in the search results was a really buffed guy bent over, with one guy fucking him in the ass while he sucked another guy. "Ugh, that's gross" I thought. But I kept looking at the picture. The guy was buffed; he looked like a total jock. And his big dick was rock hard; he seemed to be really enjoying getting plowed from both ends. I clicked the image to view it full size. The web site came up with a whole series of the guy, in a locker room, getting fucked in the ass by big-dicked guys in about every conceivable position. "How could a jock like that get off being fucked in the ass?" I wondered, "especially by such big dicks? I'd always thought that would have to hurt like hell, but that jock sure seemed to be enjoying himself. The photo series ended with the jock spraying a huge load while having his ass plowed.
I realized I was rubbing my crotch, and I was hard as a rock. Disgusted with myself, I clicked to go back to Google. But a bunch of pop-ups began to come up all over the screen from that website. I was clicking frantically to close them when one of them caught my attention. It said something about "anal delights", and it had a picture of a buffed guy sitting on a huge dildo as he stroked his cock. I clicked, and it went to some gay porn site selling dildos and other `anal delight' devices, with guys jerking their meat, spraying huge loads, with things stuffed in their ass. "Geez," I thought, "you can get off with something like that crammed in your ass?". I finally managed to exit all the pop-ups and went back to my research.
Later that night when I went to bed I was still horny as hell. So, I got out the hand lotion and cum rag to enjoy a good jerk-off. As I beat my meat I kept thinking about the jock getting his ass plowed. I beat my meat faster, to get off and stop thinking about that shit. I thought about the photos of guys jerking off with a big dildo crammed in their ass. With an annoyed sigh, I slobbered my other hand with lotion, spread my legs wider, and my hand crept down toward my hole. My fingers toyed around the entrance, and then I pushed one inside. Ummph! Hmmmm? I pushed my finger in further. Somehow it seemed to add to the feelings in my groin. I began to push the finger in and out, beating my meat faster and faster. I pushed a second finger in. I grunted, and then blew a load so hard I think I sprayed some over the top of my head.