Rough Trade (24 page)

“Are you mad at me?” Paul asked as we got into his car.

I didn’t answer. It wasn’t good to encourage him. But the wad of money in my shirt pocket felt good, and so did the ache in my asshole. I knew he would drag me into something like that again.

Oh well, I needed the money.

Oh, What A Friend I Have in Jesus

Todd Gregory

I watched as the storm rolled in from the ocean into Acapulco Bay. The lightning flashes at the mouth of the horseshoe-shaped inlet lit up the night sky. In the distance, the black water below the jagged white strings turned green. I sat on the balcony of a beachfront high-rise, smoking a cigarette, unable to sleep. It was about four o’clock in the morning, and I knew I was going to have to let myself out relatively soon to catch a cab back to the S. S.
Adonis,
which was setting sail for Mazatlan at promptly eight in the morning. Part of me was tempted to just go on to the airport and catch the next flight back to Los Angeles. I wasn’t enjoying the cruise, as I’d known I wouldn’t. It seemed now, as it had in the days before departure, like an incredible waste of time.

Inside the apartment, beyond the open sliding glass doors, Jesus muttered something in his sleep and rolled over onto his back. I looked inside, noting the long thick brown cock resting off to the side of the large balls. His flat, perfectly smooth stomach rose and fell with every breath. I felt my own cock stir again inside my underwear, but ignored it and turned back to look out to sea. There wasn’t time for another round, and besides, he was asleep. When he woke, I would most likely be out to sea, on the cruise I regretted taking.
It’s only five more days,
I reminded myself.
After Mazatlan, we turn back north and head straight back to L.A. You can get through it, surely.

The cruise hadn’t been my idea. Whenever I thought about going on a cruise, my mind automatically returned to movies like
The Poseidon Adventure
and
Titanic.
It had been Mark’s idea, one of his harebrained schemes born out of his own boredom and need for change. Maybe that wasn’t quite fair—Mark was just more adventurous than I was, always had been, and I was usually more than happy to go along for the ride. It was Mark who’d dragged me to Gay Days at Disney, Southern Decadence in New Orleans, and IML in Chicago. I’d never regretted letting Mark serve as my vacation planner, having a great time every time I went anywhere with him. It was hard not to have fun with Mark; Mark drew people to him everywhere he went with his infectious big smile, sexy blue eyes, and his ripped muscular body. Everyone always looked at Mark, everyone always wanted to meet him, everyone always wanted to fuck him. Maybe I was a little jealous of him, but he’d worked long and hard on his body, and the work showed. He was always prone to take his shirt off whenever he got the chance, displaying the huge mouthwatering pecs and gigantic biceps that everyone wanted to touch, to see flexed. But I’d known Mark before he’d dedicated himself to turning himself, as he said, “into the hottest man over forty in Southern California.” When he suggested going on the
Adonis
cruise, I’d been more than happy to fork over the several thousand dollars, despite my aversion to being on the high seas.

Mark made everything more fun.

I flicked my cigarette over the edge of the balcony and watched the little glowing red ember tumble end over end down eleven stories before exploding into sparks on the marble walkway below. The wind was picking up as the storm crossed the bay toward land, and I shivered a little. I debated lighting another one; debated getting dressed and slipping out the elevator and heading back to the ship.

Instead, I went inside and got back into the bed, feeling Jesus’s warmth as he breathed shallowly in his sleep. There was a bedside lamp on, and as I drew on his body heat to warm my chilled skin, I looked back at the semi-hard cock with a little drop of liquid in the slit. It was a beautiful cock, purplish brown and gigantic when flaccid. When erect, it was the stuff of pornographic dreams. I stared at it wonderingly.
That thing was inside me about an hour ago,
I thought, resisting the urge to shake my head.
It made me feel like no other cock ever had before. I came three times while he pounded into my ass—no one’s ever done that before. I came the first time without even touching my own cock.

Mark had been forced to cancel his cruise at the last minute—a medical emergency. He’d overdone it at the gym and created a rupture inside his own ball sack, and his doctor had insisted on operating on it right away. The surgery itself was minor and routine—an outpatient procedure I’d driven him to and home from—but the doctor forbade him to leave the country. And when I said I’d cancel, too—Mark wouldn’t hear of it. “
No,
you go on without me,” my best friend had insisted. “I’d never forgive myself if you didn’t go because of me. You go on. You’ll have a blast, you’ll see.”

It was impossible to argue with him. If I didn’t go, he would feel bad, which then would make me feel bad, and so it was easier just to go ahead and pack and head down to the port and get settled in. Mark drove me to the pier, all the way insisting I would have a good time.

But I’m not you,
I wanted to say.
I won’t know anyone, and I’m too shy to just start talking to strangers. I’ll be a wallflower and bored the whole time. I’m not beautiful the way you are, with the body of a god and a smile that is so bright it could draw bugs in the dark to its radiance. Without you, I’ll just be bored to death and have a miserable time.

But I didn’t say any of that, instead talking about how I was looking forward to seeing Cabo and Acapulco and Mazatlan, gambling in the on-board casino and going to the disco to dance the night away with my shirt off and my jeans riding low on my hips. I pretended an excitement I didn’t feel. I smiled and laughed and joked, knowing that if I let him know how much I didn’t want to go, he’d feel bad—and even though his surgery wasn’t a serious one, I wanted him to focus on getting better. So I got out of the car, checked in and checked my bags, waved good-bye from the deck of the ship, waving as the horns blew and the big ship pulled away from the dock.

And then I became invisible.

I had my meals. I tanned on the deck while reading books, watching the other men laughing and having fun with their friends. I went into the disco in the evenings and sipped at margaritas while watching guys make new friends, hit on each other, walk past me like I wasn’t there. I walked around aimlessly, watching the moon in the night sky and wishing there was someone with me, all the time thinking how much more fun it would be if Mark were only there. Within minutes of walking into a bar together, Mark’s smile and body and charisma would have a crowd of people around us.

Without him I was nothing.

When we docked in Acapulco yesterday afternoon, I went ashore along with everyone else—although everyone else seemed to be a part of a crowd talking and laughing and making plans for their day. Me, I just grabbed a cab with no real idea of where to go, so I just instructed the driver to take me somewhere
los Americanos
rarely went. He just nodded, and after about twenty minutes he let me out in a business area, full of restaurants and bars and shops. As I walked around, I slowly began to realize that this was the part of Acapulco that the Mexican tourists came to—white faces were few and far between. I did some shopping, ate dinner at an Italian restaurant, and walked a little further up the street. It was geeting late, and I was just thinking about hailing a cab and heading back to the boat when I glanced up a side street and saw a place called
Club Caliente.

“You speak English?” a young man beside me said.

I turned and looked at him. He was young, maybe seventeen or so, short and stocky with a face burned reddish brown by the sun. He was smiling. I smiled back. “Yes,” I replied.

He nodded at Club Caliente. “Is club with dancers. For men. Upstairs, the women dance. Downstairs, the boys.” His smile grew bigger. “You like the boys?”

I nodded.

“The boys dance. You will like.”

“Thank you,” I replied, and started watching the traffic for a cab. But as I saw one approaching and started to raise my hand to wave it down, I stopped. I looked back over my shoulder.

Mark would go to the club. You owe it to Mark to go in there and check it out. If it’s scary and dirty or whatever, you can always leave and walk back up here to get a cab. But you’ll have a story to tell Mark, for sure—and wouldn’t it be nice if one of the stories of this trip was actually true rather than made up?

So, without really expecting too much, I walked down the side street, paid a five hundred peso cover charge, and walked into the bar.

It was dark, as all gay bars are; a few lights here and there breaking through the gloom. I could see that there were less than ten people inside. I walked up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bud Light, and made my way to a table in the corner. The music was playing rather loudly, and I was kind of amused to note that a gay bar is a gay bar, regardless of the country. I sat down on a stool and nursed my beer as someone leapt up onto the bar and started dancing. My jaw dropped.

He was stark naked except for his boots.

So, a gay bar is not the same everywhere.
I smiled to myself. He was short, and looked like he was in his late teens, with cinnamon skin and that smooth, lean youthful type of body that some boys are just blessed with. He danced his way around the top of the bar, his big dick flopping, kneeling down and letting some of the guys seated there play with it, and was rewarded with folded bills being stuffed into his socks. He made his way around the bar a few times before jumping down and heading for patrons seated at the tables. When he reached me, he stood in between my legs, reached down and rubbed his dick against the bare skin of my legs. He tilted his head down, then raised his eyes to mine shyly. “You like?” he said, slapping it against my leg again.

“Very nice,” I replied, thinking,
He’s thinking, American with money, isn’t he?

He moved away after another moment, and I watched as he plied his wares at another table. I shook my head, wondering how Mark would react to the boy. I picked up my beer and out of the corner of my eye, I saw another dancer climbing up onto the bar. I had the bottle up to my mouth as I turned my head and just stopped short.

The dancer on the bar was without question one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen—which is saying a lot.

He was much taller than the previous one; maybe about six-two with thick shoulder-length blue-black hair and big round brown eyes, and his skin was tanned a dark copper. His shoulders were broad and his torso layered with corded muscle. His waist was small and his hips narrow, with long muscular legs that looked solid as stone. His entire body was hairless except for the patch of hair at his crotch, and his cock—

Was fully erect, long and thick and one of the biggest I’d ever seen outside of a porn film.

He danced around on top of the bar, turning around now and then to show a round, muscular pair of buttocks.

I gaped at him, unable to take my eyes off him.

He was magnificent.

He hopped down from the bar and made his way around the tables. I watched him—he didn’t linger for long at any of them, and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as he approached my table.

He flashed a dazzling smile of even white teeth at me. “Hola! I am Jesus.”

“Hi,” I somehow managed to mumble.

He stepped in close between my legs, his big thick hard cock brushing against the bare skin of my upper legs. “This place is a dump, no?” His English was perfect, only lightly accented. I stared into his eyes. How old could he be, I wondered, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his lean torso, to reach down and put my hand on that gigantic cock. He tossed his hair back and placed his hands on my chest. They felt hot through the T-shirt fabric, as though they would burn right through it. “If I had better offer, I would get my clothes and leave right now.” He flashed that smile at me again.

My heart sank. Stupidly, I had allowed myself to hope he might actually be interested in me. No, he was for hire, and he targeted me as what he hoped would turn out to be a rich American. “Oh,” I said, looking away from his eyes. “I see.”

He watched my face for a moment, then he opened his mouth and shouted with laughter. “You think I am a
puta?
What you call a whore?”

My cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “I—uh—”

He leaned into me and whispered into my ear. “I think you sexy. Very sexy. I watch you come in, and I decide, I want that one.” He brushed his lips against my cheek. “I have apartment two blocks from here—is beautiful place. You come?”

“Um…”

“I get clothes.”

He reached down and squeezed my cock through my shorts, smiled at me again, and turned and walked away. I watched him until he disappeared through a door off to one side of the bar—the same door another short dancer, who could have been a clone of the first one other than his hair was too short—and stared.

This couldn’t be happening. This kind of thing happened to Mark, but not to me.

I had just finished my beer when Jesus came back out through the door wearing a pair of faded torn jeans and no shirt. He walked right over to me and smiled. “Come on—” He stopped and laughed again, a joyous sound. “I don’t know name.”