I, the author, retain all rights to this story. Do not plagiarize.
Sex between men is the theme, so if you are underage for reading such material where you live, you have been warned. This is total fiction, and persons and places exist only in my imagination. Enjoy!
THE EAGLE'S NEST
Bill Moretini
Seventy-seven stories up, yet the lousy roaches come. No, I don't mean the kind you smoke, although I've done that a time or more. I'm talking about the creepy crawly kind like the one sneaking toward the remains of a slice of second rate pizza that Willy didn't finish; the piece on the top of my excuse for a filing cabinet. I would have risen from my swing-back, swiveling, beat-up office chair, grabbed a weapon and smashed the little bastard, had it not been for raising dust and irritating my chronic case of bleeding sinuses. I heard labored footsteps. The door creaked open.
"They were out of the crème filled bagels, Irv," said Willy, "so I got you a Philly instead. That okay, Irv?"
"I'm too hungry to wait while you go back to hell for something else," I said. Hell', being what I called the massive food court on the second floor of Wiggins and Weston insurance company building where I stealthily subsist at the very pinnacle of said New York City structure. I lovingly refer to the gloomy, drab four walls as the Eagles' Nest`. "Did you remember to put crème in my coffee?" I asked.
"Sure, boss. Didn't want to make another trip to hell," Willy said with a grin. "Lots of people down there today."
"Any luck..., you know, one way or the other?"
"Too much security fuzz around to be lifting. Not safe, boss."
"The other kind?" I asked, clawing at my crotch.
"You said you were starved, so I didn't take time to hustle any Johns."
"Did anyone see you take the stairs on the seventy-fifth floor?"
"Of course not!" Willy said. "How dumb do you think I am?"
That was as loaded a question and questions get. Maybe I should tell you about Willy and me. Me first.
I'm thirty-six. Five foot five short. Getting a bit of a waist from zero exercise and poor eating habits. Lox and be bagels...lox and bagels. Did I mention I'm Jewish? Did I mention single? Did I mention that I don't give a shit about religion or being queer? I just day-to-day it. I have one suit for special occasions, like when Willy turned a trick who paid him two hundred green ones. That was five years ago when I was thirty-one and Willy was nineteen and way beyond cute. But I'll get to him later. I collect stamps. I occasionally collect billfolds, other peoples, that is. I once bought a toy pistol and held up a Girl Scout Cookie stand and sold them on a corner five blocks away at half price, what I didn't eat, that is. Times were tight, and I was fourteen then. I tried it two weeks later and ended up running for my life. I didn't see the fat bitch sitting on the park bench in the shadows of the oak tree. Her two bratty girls left their concession stand and ran ahead of her, pointing to my ass and screaming, "That's him, mommy! That's tha fucking son of a bitch that stole our cookies! Catch and kill!" I ran fast in those days.
Did I mention that Willy was beyond cute? The cocksucker was awesomely gorgeous and equally sexy. He still is at twenty-four. He never told me how old he was when he hustled his first trick. Hell, he was only fifteen when he hustled me! Big mistake. He had more money than I did. But I didn't let him know that until his mouth was full of my balls. A bigger mistake on my part. He clamped down and nearly castrated me. Remember that toy pistol? It was within reach, and I pointed it at the middle of his forehead. He surrendered and let go. Actually, he still thinks the thing is a real gun. Did I mention that Willy is not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree? But with his looks and a nearly eleven inch dick that my fingers can barely reach around, who needs brains?
Willy is the bastard son of a Baptist preacher who knocked up Willy's mother by the name of Liza May, and refused to marry her. He couldn't anyway because he was already married to a woman named Joan. Anyway, when Willy was born he apparently had black blood in him, and the preacher was so white that he glared in the sun. But Liza May got her revenge. She threatened to tell Carl's wife and his entire congregation on an Easter Sunday. He paid off big time. The blackmail was where Willy got his first outlaw training. However, I was the one who taught him how to pick pockets. Now he's better at it than me. Go figure.
Our domicile: Don't laugh! Domicile sounds batter than the truth. Twelve by twelve. One dirty three by three window. Ten foot high ceiling. Heated in the winter by two Colman single-burner camping stoves. The nearest toilet was on the twenty-fifth floor, intended for use by janitors only. We shaved and sponge-bathed in lavatories at the bus station. Things can get interesting at bus station johns.
Slabs of six inch thick foam atop two army cots were not too bad for sleeping. They were great for fucking, which we did plenty of. One good thing about our seventy-seventh floor domicile was that it was quiet, except when the wind blew hard. And we didn't have to worry about disturbing anyone above, below or on all four sides. That made it possible for some great, loud and raucous sex play.
I picked up the used coffee can and shook it.
"Did you hear what I heard, Willy?" I asked.
"So, the last jerk finished paying me with coins. Change spends too!"
"Did you suck him off or bottom for him?"
"I'll have you know, he sucked me off, and then I fucked his fat ass!"
"Do you think my ass is fat?" I asked with a scrutinizing stare.
"It ain't small, boss."
"I can live with that. Are you tricking tonight? We need the money, you know."
"And I need protein input before squirting protein output. I'm starved!" Willy complained. "I'm going down to hell for a burger and a shake. Want anything else?" he asked. I shook my head, `no'.
Nineteen days later, cabin fever took it's toll. I told Willy that I had to get out of there, and told him to stay behind till I got back. Actually, I wanted to hammer some guys' ass, something that Willy didn't like, and something I really missed. But I would never admit that to him that I would have sex with someone else. Well, little did I suspect that I was about to have a rude awakening.
I took the sub and got off less than a block from my favorite watering hole where I used to easily score a sixty-nine or even a bottom to screw. It was 'happy hour' and beginning to fill up. I quickly moved to the bar and parked my caboose onto a swiveling bar stool and signaled the butch, bare-chested and hunky bar tender. While I waited, I looked around for some nice looking piece of prime nookie to bed with.
"Well?"
I spun around. "Oh! Do you know how to make a 'black Russian'?"
"I wouldn't be working here if I didn't!" snapped the miffed bartender, and turned, presumably, to make the drink. I waited and waited. He made three drinks for others before he got to mine. I was pissed.
"Leaving you hanging, is he?"
"Uh, yeah. Uh..., you look familiar," I said.
"Yeah, you do too. Tim Hawkens here."
"Tim Hawkens! I once had..., well..., you. I`m Irving Silverstone."
"Irv..., da Jew! Fuck yeah, man! You're the fag who could take two pricks up his poopshoot and barely squeal! How tha shit are ya, man?"
"Five bucks, Charlie!" squawked the bartender above the loud music.
"Huh? Oh, the drink. In the first place, my name is not Charlie. And in the second place, since when did the price go up?" I asked, frowning.
"It'll go up again in about five seconds, un-Charlie!"
"Allow me," said my new old friend, the dear old friend who offered to pay for my drink. "Keep the change, buddy," Tim said.
"Thanks for tha drink...uh, Tim. Tim Hawkens! How you been?" I asked.
"Can't complain. Do'n good! How about you?"
"Couldn't be better," I lied with a straight face.
"Great to hear!" he said, and slapped me on the back nearly knocking the wind out of me. "I'm in real estate. Commercial. That's where the big bucks are. So what brings you in here? Looking for a big ole' sausage to fill that loose hole?"
I was seething. But I kept my cool under duress.
"Just because you didn't have what it takes to fill it, doesn't mean...". He cut me off.
"Sorry, old friend. Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers. So, you been getting any good stuff lately?"
"As a matter of fact, I have!" I said as I took my first sip. "Damn! That's a weak fuck'n drink," I said. "Uh, what about you?"
"Ooooh yeah! A few nights ago, I picked up this darling hustler and took him to my ninety-second story, modernly furnished penthouse for some really hot fun. He did an awesome strip tease for me, you know, to get thinks warmed up. You should have seen the dick on that gorgeous creature! Nearly eleven inches, so he claimed, and I believe it too. Luckily, he wanted me to screw him. That was one hell of a hot ass, let me tell you! He said he lived with some loser who only wanted to get screwed and had no versatility in bed. Bossy too, he said. I felt sorry for him."
"A hustler? Nearly eleven inches? Sounds too good to be true. Do you remember his name? I might be interested in that piece myself."
"Uh..., let me think. Oh yeah! It was Willy! Willy the wanker. He wanked off while I poured the dick to him. I gave him my bizz card. I want another shot at Willy, boy. Heh! I could hook you up with him! would you like that, Irv, baby?"
"Uh..., maybe. A penthouse, huh? You must be well healed. How much did that hustler named Willy charge you?"
"Five big ones, but he was well worth every cent."
"FIVE! So you mean five...bucks?" I asked, feeling, and I'm sure, looking perplexed.
"Five bucks? That's funny! You've got a great sense of humor, Irv."
That fucker began laughing and nearly fell off the barstool. You've never seen a man guzzle a drink faster than I did. I spun on that stool and mowed my way through the groping, smooching, feeling up bunch of cock sucking, butt fucking queers, like a snow plow clears a street. I was pissed.
"Five hundred fucking bucks!" I yelled as I swept down the subway stairs. I paced while I anxiously awaited the train.
"You giving away five hundred bucks...mister?" asked a meek, shabby, barefoot boy who followed me down the subway stairs.
"Awe, shut up!" I yelled, garnering a bunch of frowns from onlookers. He shoot me the bird and ran up the stairs.
I boarded the train and pushed an old bag lady out of the way to get a seat. I crossed my arms and simmered. [He held out on me, the damn shit. Five hundred dollars, and he never puts more than one hundred in the coffee can, at the most!], I thought. But would I confront the bread winner? No way. My stamp collection was all of the collateral that I had to my name, except what Willy shared with me from his sex jobs. I depended on him to survive! Did I mention that I considered Willy to be my happy slave? My go-for?
I was a louse. A jerk. A moocher. A deadbeat. A schmuck. And I couldn't sell my bod for a dime. It's all about youth, equipment and looks, and looks doesn't mater if you've got the equipment. And Willy had enough equipment for two guys. If Hawkens was telling the truth, Willy let Hawkens fuck him. It never occurred to me that he would want my cock humping his buns.
Amends were in order. But where to start was the question. I could not tell him about my conversation with Tim. I couldn't even mention Tim Hawkens name, let alone the five hundred dollars, because I wasn`t supposed to have sneaked to a gay bar on Willy, and know about any of it. But being the conniver I am, I soon got and idea.
"Forty-nine, ninety nine, including tax," said the grubby little squab behind the counter who looked like he`d been in every shady business known to man.
"What! I walked eight fucking blocks to pay that price for a hunk of flexible plastic?" I said rather rudely.
"Heh, buddy, I've got plenty of smaller dildos. You picked the biggest one I have. What else can I show you?"
"A fucking receipt! Here's fifty, and keep tha damn penny. Write it up," I said.
"By the size of this dildo, your ass must be a loose goose," he said, displaying a crude smirk.
"No bigger than your mouth," I said, returning the smirk.
I don't think he liked my attitude. He said nothing more and tossed the fake dick, packaged in clear plastic, into a black paper bag. I headed back to the Eagles' Nest and to Willy.
When I opened the door to the Nest, Willy was fast asleep on his cot. My plan was embryonic, so I let him sleep while I thought things through. Things were dire. If Willy consistently drew big bucks hustling high rollers, why would he need me? For that matter, why did he need me now?
He didn't.
My ego was deflating faster than a pricked balloon. Speaking of pricks, I took the heavily veined dildo out of the bag and examined it more closely. The label read, A TRUE REPRODUCTION OF FORMER PORN STAR, WILLY THE WHOPPER.
I gasped. My jaw dropped. I slowly removed the fake dick from it's package and began to trace the veining, the widely flanged head and the overall size. It was Willy, alright.
"What cha got there, Irv?"
"Huh! Uh, you're awake! Have a...good nap?" I stuttered.
"Yeah. Where did you get that?"
"What? Oh this! It's a gift, Willy..., a gift for you!"
"It looks familiar. Toss it here," he said.
In addition to being speechless, I couldn't look Willy eye to eye. I just tossed the thing in his direction. Would he recognize his own dick? He should, he's lived with it his whole life. Humm, how much did he get paid for having his dick duplicated? How much did he get paid for making porn videos? Why did he keep that a secret from me? Humm.
"That's mine!" said Willy. "Why and where did you get it. Do you want me to fuck you with it instead of the real thing? I don`t understand."
"I...I..., I got it for...you, Willy. I thought you might want to try getting fucked."
"I do not do that!"
Another rude awakening. I wasn't the only one who could lie. Willy, Tim and I were an orgy of liers! But if I called him on it, he would know that I knew about him and Tim Hawkens. He would know that I know about the five hundred hustle. He would know that I went to a gay bar, and think that I wanted to rub dicks with someone else. That would be true, and not good.
"I just thought that you might want to try it, honey."
"Honey? What's going on here, Irving?" Willy asked belligerently.
"Do you have something you'd like very much to tell me?" I asked.
"No! But I'd like to tell you that I'm moving out, A S A P!"
"You can't do that, Willy. Where would you go? What about me?"
"I met someone named Tim. He knows how to treat me right and I really like him. And he would never lie to me like you do!"
Now that was real irony. If he only knew.
Washing dishes for a burger joint and sleeping in the shop's broom closet was my first job. Eight months later, I was flipping burgers. Ten months later, I was waiting tables in the same greasy spoon joint. It was late on a Saturday night and I was frazzled. The front door opened and in came, guess who.
"Well hi, Irving. So we meet again," said Tim.
"Yeah, hi, Irv," said Willy. "We thought we'd go slumming for a change. Lobster and steak gets boring after a while. How you doing? Oh, I can see how you're doing. Could you show us the best seat in the house?"
"I fucking quit!!!"
Note: Life can be cruel.
PS. I've still got that big dildo that I kept for myself. That way I still enjoy a part of Willy, so to speak, when I go solo. Humm.
I hope you enjoyed the story. All comments, good or bad, are very welcome at... blm33@kc.rr.com