Guilty Pleasures

Money’s Worth I’m outside the Bar Code downtown, standing on the curb with my hands shoved deep in the pockets of my sweatpants and trying hard to look worlds more interesting than I really am, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I whirl around, stepping back, but it’s only Ritchie. He’s drunk and there’s a wild look in his eyes, a devilish gleam that excites me, though I don’t let him know it. Ritchie’s cool in a way I’ve always wanted to be but can’t seem to attain, no matter how ripped my jeans are, or how disheveled my hair, or how worn my T-shirt. He’s crazy, man, craziest guy on our floor, and I know the only reason a lot of other dudes in our dorm know who I am is because I’m his roomie. He’s the kind of guy who will stage mattress fights at three in the morning, and even if you have an exam the next day, you can’t help but stand in the hallway cheering him on as you watch him holding his battered twin-size mattress, a barbaric yawp escaping his lips as he launches himself down the hall at someone just as wild and crazy as he. I’ve stood there many times, laughing with the rest of our floor mates, but I’m never quick enough to grab my mattress first and run at him from the opposite end of the hall. He has the loudest music, shouts hello to everyone in the hall, sings in the shower at the top of his lungs as if no else one is listening, and even calls out to his professors in the cafeteria when he sees them. There’s an air of casual negligence about him that I wish I could pull off half as well. He’s so far out of my league, I’m still surprised when he speaks to me any time we’re off campus together, but I’m his roommate, the built-in sidekick, the tagalong makeshift friend, and I’m the only guy on our floor who has a car. I suppose that makes me tolerable to some degree. But sometimes? My throat still dries up when he catches me unawares. He has dark grey eyes that flash with mirth and when he’s angry or mad, they darken like storm clouds. He wears his hair long and unkempt, dyed black and down to his shoulders, an almost scary look that my mother hates and makes him that much hotter in my eyes. He can never seem to keep his hands out of that mop of hair—he’s always pushing it up, out of the way, and it sticks out at crazed angles that make him look like some sort of mad genius. Whenever we’re together, my hands clench in unconscious fists to keep from plunging into those inky depths. Ritchie has the lower bunk in our room and some nights, after he’s fallen asleep, I’ll click on my lamp that’s clamped to my headboard and lean over the side of the upper bunk just to watch the shadows play across his sharp cheekbones, his closed eyelids, his thin lips. Every time he comes in from the shower or changes his clothes, I watch him from the corner of my eye, without him knowing. I’ve seen his narrow waist, his lanky legs, his flat stomach almost concave below his ribs, the jut of his hip bones, the thick length of his c**k hanging below a small brush of tight dark curls. He always drops the towel, or strips completely, then goes about the task of gathering together clothing to wear before he actually starts to get dressed. I’ve watched him stand in front of his wardrobe, hands on his bare hips, his ass cheeks flexing as he decides what to wear. I’ve watched him bend over to pull out jeans from the bottom drawer of his dresser; I’ve seen the darkness between his legs, the hint of hidden flesh, and it was all I could do not to jump down from my bunk to press my hands, my nose, my mouth into his secret crevices. Part of me hopes he shows off like that just for me, because Lord knows I’m looking and after all these months, you’d think Ritchie would figure it out, himself. I get hard just seeing him nude, d**k limp even, when there’s not the slightest hint of s*x about him. If I ever saw him hard, or watched him touch himself in the slightest way, or hell, had him touch me, I’d probably come immediately. A few times, when he’s up before me and I’m still in bed, feigning sleep. I’ve touched myself beneath my blankets as I watched him, my fingers stroking down my own d**k, fondling my balls, moving slowly so he won’t know I’m awake. But the moment he’s out the door, heading for class, I wrap the blanket around my erection and jerk off into it, my mouth pressed to my pillow so no one hears his name on my lips. Ritchie. Here outside the club, his eyes are bright with beer. “Hey man,” he laughs, leaning against me. His alcoholic breath ignites my skin. “Listen to this. Want a blowjob?” For a long moment I stare at him, not daring to hope he’s offering…is he for real? Or just pulling my leg? Damn, what a loaded question to pop. “What?” I glance past Ritchie to a grinning, toothless bum who seems to have drifted into our conversation; he stands like a satellite on the edge of Ritchie’s orbit, grizzled face unwashed, a battered wool hat clamped down tight over a shock of graying, wiry hair. He wears a trench coat, and one hand is shoved deep into his pocket, fisted around a bottle of cheap booze or his d**k, I don’t know which. When I give him a contemptuous look, his grubby grin only widens. With a nod over his shoulder to indicate the guy, Ritchie asks, “You got ten bucks?” My hand strays to my back pocket, where my wallet rests, but the bum’s eyes widen in interest, his gaze drawn to my ass like a magnet, and I play off the move by wiping my hand down the side of my leg. “What for?” Ritchie leans closer, if that’s possible—I could kiss him, we’re that close, and God knows I want to, but we’ve known each other three months now and I’m not about to make the first move. He’s never shown the slightest interest in me, and he’s all over my gaydar scale. Some days I think he is, the way he looks at me, the little things he says, and some days I just don’t know. I’m not about to find out here, on the corner of Broad and Grace, with some scary homeless tramp watching for shits and giggles. I try to take a step back, my mind struggling to connect the offer of a blowjob with the request for ten dollars, but Ritchie’s hand grips my shoulder and keeps me rooted in place. “No, listen,” he says again. He lowers his voice but for him, that’s not saying much—I’ve grown used to his loudness, and have to strain to hear him speak at a normal level. “This guy? Asks me what he can do for ten bucks, see? So I go, just kidding, I go how about a blowjob? And he’s like sure. So…” He trails off, but I’m still not following. I glance behind him again—this time the bum has the audacity to waggle his fingers at me, that grin of his turning coy. Ten bucks. My ten bucks. Paying for someone else to suck Ritchie’s c**k. “No.” “Aw, man!” Ritchie whines, as if I’ve just ruined his evening. But he pulls me to him, hisses in my ear. “Look at him, Carl. He needs the cash. Look at his teeth.” When Ritchie turns, I glance down between us and can tell the prospect of a back alley BJ turns him on—the crotch of his tight black jeans bulges at me. Because some wino says he’ll give Ritchie head. Hell, I wouldn’t even charge him…I cross my arms in front of my chest, glaring at the raggedy fucker grinning our way. “What teeth?” “Exactly!” Ritchie’s arm snakes around my shoulders and he hugs me tight, as if I’ve finally seen the light. In his louder than normal voice, he tells me, “No front teeth, man. Think of it. Just slide your d**k through that gap, a perfect fit. Pull it in and out a few times, you get off, he gets a little cash for dinner. What do you say?” I want to say Ritchie’s lost his mind. In my head it sounds nonchalant, and I even think maybe I’ll give him the ten as long as he lets me watch, but there’s a very real part of me that wants to do more than that and when I speak, my words are laced with bitterness and jealousy. “You want a blowjob?” I ask, reaching for my wallet. “A real mind-numbing, world-blowing, orgasmic d**k licking? Someone going down on you? Sucking you off…is that what you want?” The bum nods, eager, and Ritchie laughs in anticipation. I dig out my wallet, pull out two fives, and shove them into the dirty, open palm stretched my way. But before Ritchie can say anything, I tell the guy, “Get lost.” “Wait,” Ritchie starts. “You said—” I give my roommate an incredulous look. “You really want a blowjob from this dude? You don’t know where he’s been, what he’s got. You’ll be lucky if your d**k doesn’t fall off in the morning.” Ritchie pouts, giving me that silly hound dog look of his I usually get when it’s late and he’s trying to convince me to give him a ride somewhere. Those wounded eyes get me every time. “Carl,” he whines. Sometimes I hate his voice. It’s like a drug, it gets into my veins, and the more he talks, the more I want to hear. When he’s like this, needy and pleading, he knows I’m weak against him, I know he knows, and I suspect he’s playing me just to get his way, but there’s little I can do to stand strong. What Ritchie wants, he gets. And damn it, but he’s already figured that out and uses it to his advantage. “You want a blowjob?” I ask again. He nods, slowly, sadly, and I surprise us both when I say, “s**t man, why didn’t you just ask me?” “I didn’t,” he starts, but whatever else he might’ve added dries up as my words sink in. “Wait. You want to?” Now his intense gaze is on me, seeing me for the first time, and I try to shrug off the nervous anticipation that has bloomed in me at the thought of touching him, tasting him, finally. “I’m just saying…” “What?” Ritchie asks, trying to pin me down. “You’d do it?” Another shrug. What the hell? “Sure,” I tell him. “Why not?” Ritchie lets out a whoop! that pierces the night and deafens me. I pull out from his one-arm embrace, making a show of sticking my finger in my ear so he knows just how damn loud he is, and scowling so he won’t see how pleased I am with what we’re about to do. But a sobering thought hits him and he turns to me, smile dying as the light in his eyes fades. “Wait,” he says again. “Are you any good?” I laugh despite the color that burns my cheeks. “What do you want, references? Did you ask him for any?” Indecision flickers across Ritchie’s face. “You get what you pay for,” he points out. “I gave him ten bucks—” “I gave him the ten bucks,” I remind him. “If you don’t want me to do it, fine. Let me go see if I can catch that guy and get my money’s worth…” But Ritchie grabs my arm, keeping me in place, as if I’d really chase down that smelly old fucker anyway. “No, it’s cool,” he tells me. His grip loosens, and suddenly I’m all too aware of the press of his fingers on the inside of my elbow. “So you’re telling me you’re good.” “One of the best,” I brag, though to be honest, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten with a guy and Ritchie’s insistent questions are starting to make me doubt myself. I shrug off his hand, but it drifts back to my arm as if he’s afraid to let me go. “Where do you want to do this?” He looks at the alley behind us, dark and cramped and more than a little spooky right now, then across the street at the empty grocery store parking lot where my car is parked. The street lights don’t quite reach my Saturn, and the dark blue paint makes it hard to see in the night. The windows are black, sightless, the interior of the car impenetrable. No one will see us in there. Without a word, Ritchie starts across the street, his hand on my arm drawing me after him, and before we even reach the opposite curb, I have my keys in my hand, the both of us on the same wavelength. Every other step I take seems jaunty, and I have to force myself to keep breathing for fear of passing out. Ritchie, me, the back seat of my car, his pants unzipped and woo boy, but my brain short-circuits right there, I can’t think any farther than that. Instead my heart skips a beat, my legs quiver with anticipation, my own d**k throbs in the front of my pants, and my mind whirls out with a litany of white noise that sounds like, Ritchie, me, oh God, thank you, Jesus, oh s**t, oh yes, oh God. Ritchie. Me. Thank you, Jesus.