Saturday, April 8, 2017

I Bring Home a Teen Hustler

West Hollywood, April 1994

My boyfriend Lane and I had different tastes in men.  We both liked hefty, muscular or chubby guys, but he liked them older, tall, hairy, and fair skinned, and I liked them my age, short, smooth, and dark skinned.  So we got the idea of cruising separately and looking for our preferred types.

On Friday or Saturday nights, there was usually a party or a dinner to go to early in the evening.  If it didn't end in bedroom activity, Lane went to the Faultline or the Eagle in search of bears and leathermen, and I went to Mugi or Basgo's in search of Asian or Hispanic guys.

We would cruise from about 9:30 pm to 11:00 pm (if you don't meet someone within the first hour, you're not going to).  At 11:30 we met at the French Quarter to have a late snack and make the introductions.  Then we went home to share.

We usually ended up with one guy in our bed, but almost never two.  I don't know why.

That night in April 1994, I was having a dry spell: ever since I got back from Atlanta, nothing. Three Saturday nights in a row, Lane picked up hirsute, hung leathermen old enough to be my father, who might, if I was lucky, let me lick their balls while they were doing 69 with Lane.  I never got to take a load, or give one.

I felt like a third wheel in my own bedroom.

"Ok, that's it!" I exclaimed after the latest hirsute, hung leatherman had his coffee and left.  "I'm tired of the old, hairy guys!  Next Saturday night, I'm going cruising by myself -- you can stay home and watch a VHS tape of Star Trek -- to a twink, bar, where I'll pick up the smoothest, softest twink who ever twirled on a dance floor to the music of Sound Factory."

"That's easier said than done," Lane pointed out.  "You're 33 years old.  Infinite Chazz thinks you're hot, but the average twink wants somebody his own age."

"Not a problem -- I'll just flash my biceps and basket, and they'll follow me anywhere. In fact, I'll do you one better.  Next Saturday night in our bed, there will be a Cute Young Thing."

The youngest, softest, most innocent of twinks, barely legal, too young for the bars, age 18 to 21.

"Ok. Let's make it interesting.  If you bring home someone under 21, I'll do the chore you hate the most for a month."

"That's grocery shopping!" I exclaimed.  "And if I bring home someone over 21, or nobody at all, I'll do the chore you hate the most for a month."

"That would be laundry.  And I think it's about time to wash all the comforters and bedspreads in the house. You'd better stock up on Fab."  He paused.  "But no fair bringing home one of Infinite Chazz's friends.  You have to meet him through cruising."

I knew that I was in trouble.  I'm a twink magnet now in my 50s, but in my 30s young guys usually ignored me.  And how was I supposed to meet a Cute Young Thing, when they're too young to go to the bars?

9:00 pm: Different Light Bookstore.  Maybe they were browsing among the coming out manuals.

9:30 pm:  The Rage.  Maybe they got a fake id to go dancing inside.

10:00 pm:  Mrs. Fields' Cookies.  Cute Young Things like cookies, right?

11:00 pm.  The Cinerama Dome.  Maybe they were hanging out at the video game area of the theater.

11:30 pm. I found a pay phone and told Lee I would be a little late.

12:00 am.  The Toy Tiger, for old guys and their admirers.

1:00 am.  Book Circus, in desperation, to hire a hustler.

Book Circus was a small, sleazy bookstore on Santa Monica and La Jolla, only a few blocks from the French Quarter.  It sold mostly porn, but you could find some interesting other things.  There's nothing like buying a remaindered version of The D'Oyly Carte Picture History of Gilbert and Sullivan at 2:00 in the morning, while bleary-eyed patrons stare.

The patrons: guys who didn't get laid at the bars, eyeing old copies of Blueboy and Mandate to give them ideas before they go home to beat off.  And, if they don't want to go home alone, there were always hustlers wandering around.

Hustlers are not denigrated in gay communities, not looked down up or pitied.  They're merely capitalizing on their special gifts, generally an enormous penis,  How is making money from their penis any different than making money from musical talent or a big brain?  And the activity they engage in is enjoyable, not demeaning.  Why not get paid for doing it?

However, their clients are almost always bisexual, married, or downlow men.  Gay men have so many options for sex that they rarely have the need or the interest to patronize a hustler.

Except in an emergency.

Lane said I had to meet a Cute Young Thing through cruising.  He never said I couldn't pay for him.

It had to be a young looking guy, fresh-faced, innocent, right off the bus -- that's quite a tall order, for a hustler.  And he couldn't be drunk or high -- Lane hated drugs and alcohol.

Paydirt!  A very cute, very young looking guy, short, buffed, with black hair and dark skin, maybe Hispanic, pretending to read The Advocate.  He looked up at me and smiled.

"This place has a great selection," I said.  "I come here all the time."

He smiled.  "I usually wait until I get home."

An old joke.

We talked and cruised for a few minutes. He was Tai, from San Jose in northern California, 19 years old, in town for about six months.  He had a part-time job in a pizza place, but L.A. was expensive, and he was making money any way he could.

Time to seal the deal.  "It's pretty late.  Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"Not if you're offering yours."

"Sure.  I live just about six blocks from here.  But kust you know, there'll be two of us.  Will that be extra?"

He frowned. "I don't do ladies."

"No, no -- my boyfriend.  He' a couple of years older than me, hairy chest,  cut 7.5."

"Sounds like just my type.  Oh -- before we go, could you lend me $10 for some cigarettes?"

Rather a cheap fee for a hustler, but I figured he'd charge us the rest later.

We went back to the house, where Lane was waiting up.  He was surprised to see the Cute Young Thing with me, but not so surprised that he didn't invite him into the bedroom and go down on him while we kissed.

Wait -- you didn't examine him for crabs! I thought.  But I'd be doing laundry tomorrow anyway.

Tai had a hard, smooth chest and a surprisingly small penis for a hustler.  Weren't they supposed to be gifted?  But when it became aroused, it hit flat against his belly.

I went down on Tai while he went down on Lane.  Soon I was taking his load.  Then I pushed him down onto the bed into interfemoral position, while he was still sensitive.  He groaned, gasped, and became aroused again.

Staying power!  A good quality for a hustler!

Now Lane went down on Tai again, while I entered his mouth from the top.  When I finished, Tai pushed me down onto his penis to spurt for me a second time.

Then we shared Lane's penis.  At the last moment, Tai pushed my head over so I would take Lane's load.

"That wasn't necessary," I said, gasping.  "I go down on Lane every day anyway.  We brought you in to share."

"Ok, then I'll take the next one.  But I'm warning you -- I'm keeping track."

Was he going to charge me by the orgasm?

After Lane finished his second orgasm, he got up and went to take a shower.  Tai lay his head on my chest.  I wrapped my arms around him.

"I should cover your payment now, while Lane isn't around," I whispered.  "How much do I owe you for the night?"

Tai began kissing my chest.  "How much do you owe me for what?"

" know.."  My face began to burn. You weren't supposed to actually mention the contract openly.  "Um...don't"

He smiled.  "Maybe, if the guy is a crazy closet case who won't kiss or go down on me.  Maybe not.  You'll never know."

And I still don't know for sure if Tai was a hustler or not.

By the way, total score: me 1, Lane 2, Tai 4.

See also: The Teenage Lawnboy; Cruising East of Alvarado.

1 comment:

  1. I don't remember what the teenage hustler's name actually was, but it wasn't Tai, and it wasn't distinctly South Asian. Bob or Jim or something.



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