The Author's Assistant

Chapter 1: Guy-Play Inside the dusty stockroom of TJ Books: eight inches of TJ’s swollen and unprotected c**k pumped my insides, banging my bottom. Cream dripped out of my rod and splashed against a shelf of classics. TJ spanked me and yelled down at my back, “f*****g you, Shane!” I yelped, feeling a fresh sting on my ass. Ten minutes of his ride turned into twenty. Eventually he reached around me and began to yank on my tool. More hot spew exploded out of my pole and washed over his books. TJ said, “shooting in you, pal,” and popped his sticky guy-load in my ass. * * * * Minutes later, I tried to kiss him as we stood chest to chest among shelves of books, but he turned his head away from me, just as I’d expected him to. * * * * “You got laid last night?” Alex Sedim, my best friend of seven years, asked, making us breakfast inside our six-hundred-square-foot apartment on Yossner Drive. “Unsafe s*x,” I said, groggy at our kitchen table, hovering over the mug of hot coffee I was holding in both hands, praying to the nocturnal gods of heaven that my hangover would be whisked away. “You’re going to get sick,” he warned. “Did you run out of money again?” I took Alex in for the thousandth time: five-ten frame, brown shaggy hair, amber eyes, nicely sculpted body with cut abs, a full six-pack, muscular legs, small rose-red lips, twenty-one years old, an usher for Scandinavia House. “I did. There was no way I was passing up TJ’s c**k. You would have done the same thing.” And he took me in for the thousandth time: thick brown curly hair, five-ten frame, 175 pounds, dreamy brown eyes, narrowly sloped nose, a jogger’s build. He asked, “TJ Mezinine?” “The one and only.” “You’re right. I would have done the same thing. I’ve been after his hot bod for the last six months.” Alex scrambled eggs at the stove. Toast was in the toaster. More coffee was brewing on the counter. “I’ll introduce you to him. He’s a spanker. I’m not really into that.” “And get your sloppy seconds?” “Hey, man, whatever it takes.” * * * * I took a pill called Lax and believed that: Twenty-three year old TJ found me in my bedroom and stripped out of his clothes: A&F shirt, Diesel jeans, and white Unico briefs. The guy was top-notch beautiful all the way: dark hair and eyes, muscular chest with a narrow treasure trail that fell below his navel and into his V-patch of curly pubic hair, muscular thighs, his eight-inch c**k standing upright and ready for use. “You need to be used, Shane?” Lax told me I was. I spread my legs and pointed to the pink, tight hole. “Spank and f**k me, dude.” “And then your roommate?” “Whatever it takes.” * * * * New York City was hot and sticky, a bare-chested boy’s delight. Ninety degrees in the sun felt like one hundred and forty. By the time I’d walked to Teastyle Bar and Grille in my waiter’s uniform, I was soaked with perspiration. “You’re late,” Roscoe Brunner hissed at me. I wanted to cream the old queen with my fist, but I needed the job and money to pay for my food and half the rent. My defense was lame, but true, “I couldn’t run. It’s too hot out. I almost passed out on Sixty-Second Street.” Roscoe looked a little bit like George Clooney. He grabbed my chin with his right palm, shared a smile with me that looked a little creepy, and said, “You’re lucky I think you’re hot. Or you’d be fired.” * * * * Some middle-aged guy who looked like Armistead Maupin came into Teastyle for a late lunch: crab cakes, a side house salad, and a Long Island Iced Tea. The guy introduced himself as Ty Devon. “Nice to meet you.” “You’re gorgeous,” he said. “A Robert Pattinson look-alike.” “I’m just me,” I said. “What’s your name again?” “Shane Allister.” Ty took a drink of his Long Island, swallowed it down, did a once-over of my body from head to toe, and asked, “How old are you?” “Twenty-one.” “Do you have a girlfriend?” “Never.” “Do you have a boyfriend?” “I’m a player. It’s what I’m good at.” “Do you ever play with men twice your age?” “You mean daddies?” “Exactly.” Although I really didn’t find him attractive, I nodded, leaned into him, and confessed in a whisper, “You name the place and time. I’ll have my ass ready for you.” * * * * I took my break early and we had s*x in the back of his Mercedes. Ty blew me, eating my seed down the back of his throat. Once I came, he instructed me to jerk him off. I don’t know why I decided to give him a hand job, but I did. Following my tedious work, he ate his own cream off my hand, finger after finger, devouring every drop of his spent into his system. I was just getting ready to head back into the bar when he said, “Shane, take this.” It was a burgundy business card with his name, address, and phone number printed on it in swan white. Above his name were the words: A-LIST ASSISTANTS. “If you need a new job, babe, you contact me.” I nodded, climbed out of his Mercedes, and headed back inside the bar to deal with Roscoe for the next four hours, feeling sated and stupid. * * * * Text to my on-line buddy following my shift at Teastyle: Me: Yes, I want to meet u finally. No f*******: stuff anymore. JoshSeven: I’m available at 8 tonite. M: Sushi? J: Allergic. I like Thai. M: Thai it is. J: Meet me. Si-wan’s @ 815. M: I will b there. J: Bring condoms. I’m horny. M: Fill ur belly + f**k me fun? J: Yes. LOL M: U have apartment? J: I do. M: We can f**k there? J: 3 times is ur min. M: Im up 4 that. J: Of course u r. M: TTY. J: Bye. * * * * Wednesday night: Jockish Alex, my roommate, found his way into my room around two o’clock in the morning, stripped out of his boxers, slipped up to my bed, and flipped me over onto my stomach. I didn’t fight him off, although I could have. Truth was, I wanted him inside me, pressing his nine inches of flag into my bottom, separating my ass cheeks with his massive piece of beef. His palms held my hips and he rolled into me, pulled out, and rolled into me again. Neither of us thought it rape, but rather enjoyed it. After he came inside me, he spent the rest of the night with me, spooning my body until dawn. And then he snuck back to his bedroom with his boxers in his hand, leaving me to my morning sleep, alone. * * * * June 6–June 13: Tuesday, Paulo Sanchez decided to use his seven-inch c**k and a cucumber on my rump at the same time. Wednesday, Chris Channing bit my right n****e during s*x and it bled. Thursday, TJ spanked me again, which I didn’t enjoy. Friday, Alex slipped into my room sometime after three o’clock in the morning and took advantage of my bottom. He didn’t spend the rest of the night with me. Saturday, I visited The Back Bar and went home with a bald, muscular daddy named Brick. Although he was only six inches long, he knew how to use his stick. Sunday, I prayed with Roofy Matheson, one of my friends, and we had a liquid lunch of beer in his Greenwich Village apartment. I can’t remember when our clothes came off and we decided to smoke pot and take a pill called Away and… Monday, I met a guy named Peter Gang at Teastyle. He looked like Zac Efron. He took me home to meet his lover, Greg. I spent the rest of the week between them. * * * * On Friday, June 18, I left Pete and Greg’s apartment. I wrote them a note and left it on their kitchen table: I liked playing with your c***s. If you want some more fun, text me, I’ll be right over. * * * * When I finally got back to my apartment I found a nineteen-year-old blond boy asleep in my bed, one of Alex’s twink friends. I woke him up and asked the queer his name: Steven. “You going to pay me to sleep in my bed?” He rubbed a fist in his eyes, obviously still half-asleep and on some drug. “What kind of payment?” “My c**k in your ass. You game?” He slipped out of his teal aussieBums, rolled onto his belly, and groaned, “f**k me, guy, you’re hot.”