It was weird. I started doing crazy things. Well, call me a slut, but we have to do what we have to. I got it into my head that I would stand on this street corner-in really tight clothes. I'd stand next to this restaurant where people who were incredibly loaded ate (it was a restaurant connected with a hotel); and I'd stand there slouching and practically holding my dick in my hand until one of them noticed me. I stood there and looked like an obvious boy-whore. I mean I had that attitude that people who are expecting to be paid for have, pretending to be waiting for someone when I obviously wasn't; looking at my watch and then staring out into the street as if I was about to hail a cab. I stood there looking as lost and arrogant as I could. I'd return a yearning look with something more direct, when the time came. That's how it works for me. It's only what you think you are that gets you off, not who you are, but who you could be. Right now I was this kid that a lot of people could want.

So there I was, propped up against this lamppost and practically coming while these people stuffed their faces. It was evening, and almost night. Plus it was a Saturday. And that's the night when married men come out of the closet. A couple seemed to have taken notice of me. She was fat, middle-aged, and obviously liked her noodles with lots of sauce. She'd been zapped one time too many with a peroxide bottle, wore too much eye shadow and I could make out her long, fake nails from where I stood. She was lazily forcing a piece of bread into her mouth while looking at me. I stopped what I was doing for a moment to gaze back. The man was equally done up, dressed in a businessman's suit with way too much suntan from out of a bottle-or was it the Caribbean? He wore a bright blue jacket with golden buttons, a blue tie and white shirt. They were both nauseating in a way, like caricatures straight off the Concorde. It was obvious that they were slumming, going continent hopping-making sure they found a Madison Avenue within a four block radius where ever they went. I stood there with my hands in my pockets as they both stopped chewing for a moment to assess me. I could imagine her saying-that boy's for sale, isn't he? They both seemed puzzled or shocked at the idea. She was either working on his sense of insecurity regarding his desire for young boys or else they were both bored off their asses. Probably both. Maybe they were deciding who should get me. I wished a date would show up suddenly, so I could leave them to decide who'd fuck who.

I threw my shoulders back and gave them a dismissive look. A younger guy drinking a glass of wine a little ways off from them had his eye on me.

Why I did this sort of thing wasn't too difficult to figure out. It was all about the chase. I liked being the quarry. And I liked them not knowing that they were being hunted. The big fellow licked his chops as they brought on the main course. I chain-smoked cigarettes. I suppose they expected me to wait out here until they threw me the remains of that dynamite meal. The maitre d' kept coming to the edge of the doorway and looking out onto the street. It looked like he might spit on me. I smiled at the old queer and he tossed his cigarette out onto the sidewalk, barely missing me. I got the point.

I watched the street as if still waiting for someone to show, and let everything float out into the busy night air. If you let things go like that, something will definitely catch on. I know it sounds like I'm trying to attract the devil or something; maybe I am. But everyone sees things, even if they pretend they aren't looking. And I knew they saw me.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

It was the young-ish guy, who, moments ago had been behind the partition.

You look like you've been stood up, he said hesitantly.

Oh? And what does a person who's been stood up look like? I answered smoothly.

Disappointed, he said.

Well, I've had a hard day, I replied.

He looked at me as if he knew a lie when he saw one.

Let me buy you a drink, then, he said.

He nodded his head towards the restaurant. In there, he said.

Ok, I said. I wanted to sound tentative. I had to see the look on that couple's face as I parked my ass at the bar. The husband was stuffing food into his face and nearly dumped his plate into his lap when he got a load of me, in there among them.

I may have smiled triumphantly. His wife, whose back was to the bar, craned her neck as if in search of a celebrity. I said to the guy what are you having? I didn't catch what he said. His eyes were on me. Other eyes as well. The maitre d' was talking to someone and pointing towards me. Probably talking about throwing me out. But I was legit now.

You always do that? The guy said. Yeah, I said, to whatever he was asking.

I mean, stand in front of restaurants like that?

Why not? I said. There's no law against it.

He laughed to himself and gave the bartender a twenty.

There are laws against a lot of things, he said, sucking his drink down (looked like a rum and coke). Well, I'm no lawyer, I said. He gave me his name and then he touched me on the shoulder.

I could tell, he said. Half of what he said didn't make sense.

You could tell?

I could tell you were… you know, for rent, he said.

Guess my tight pants said it all, I said.

I took my drink and swiveled around in my chair until I was facing the couple. I hoisted my drink in the air, so that they could see it was for them, a toast. The woman wiped her mouth with a napkin and spoke rapidly to her husband.

Friends of yours? the guy asked.

Everyone's a friend of mine, I said. (Without adding, or a potential enemy).

So are you with them or me? He asked.

Hmm. I liked him and I told him so. I'm with you, I said. You snooze you lose.

We clinked glasses and he took me up to his hotel room.

I know it's a cliché, but I was coming in his mouth before those two downstairs were done with their coffee.

Sordid, did I say? Do you care about what kind of underwear he wore and what he smelled like? And when I came did it feel good? That night it felt good. I felt like I was really fucking something when my dick was in his mouth (destiny?) yeah, destiny's good. Destiny is the only thing I like to fuck. Did he keep his socks on like they usually do?

Not like it matters. The hedonists like to go buff. The men who haven't out-grown mommy must fuck fully dressed. He, (who I haven't even bothered to describe) had reddish hair on his chest. A flat ass; miniscule. The hotel room made me want to fuck him. It was the dream of having such a place that made my cock grow rigid. And it was his dream of having me that made me feel as if I could feel myself (again). That's why I do it. Because forget it if it was about him, who was he kidding? I was fucking no one other than what I believed in (and that was myself, if only for a brief moment).

That's it; you come, boom(!) and you've lived for half a second. Because that's only as long as I could believe in myself. I should just hook into heroin and o.d. from having loved myself to death. It's sad. So I have to do this to get in the groove. I have to deal with salivating mouths and greedy hands.

This one was in on the whole narcissism thing. He could chat a fellow up big time. He supplied cigarettes, booze, condoms and an encouraging smile. He asked me how I felt and whether I needed to stop, take a shower or something. A game of Nintendo would be great, I said. He laughed, because he was right on the money.

Why don't I just lend you to the couple, he said, jokingly.

I said, who? Then: Yeah, another time. For now it's you and me bending the spoon (what that meant, I didn't know; sounded good though). He acted as if he understood. Maybe I was trying to give him a hint about doing coke. Words didn't mean much, though. I wasn't there to recite poetry.

If you're going to come in the mouth of someone you've only just met, it's best you don't know the person. Otherwise you'd have to be in love with him or something. I followed my usual strategy, kept my eyes closed. I guess by now this smut sounds pretty second-rate. I realize it is difficult to care about someone who stands in front of restaurants and taunts its patrons into buying him. But nobody thinks about that huge plate of food that gets produced when its scraps are being thrown into the garbage. It's just another day; more food washed down people's throats and huge amounts of money spent. No one really knows where it comes from, or cares. I simply buy into the mass-consumption, like everyone.

So my body got twisted into these weird pretzel-shapes while some one took his pleasure; it shouldn't be a surprise to anyone. I'm supposed to say-this is what makes me who I am. I'm not supposed to think about it. Life is supposed to touch me and I'm not supposed to feel it; well, these johns are life and they eat me up whole. But the way I see it is they can't take from something that's already been taken from.

I was getting off the elevator and they were getting on, the couple. They both stared at me as I swung past them with a knowing smile. Suddenly the husband called out:

Young man…!

Sounded like he had an accent. I continued walking. It's true I could have passed for his son. I'd taken some hotel soap as a souvenir and as I and turned and waved the doors closed in their faces; it was one of those nasty, smirky see-ya kind of waves. Let them watch Pay-Per-View instead.

©2001 Van Scott - Contributor's Bio