Rough Trade (25 page)

“Stacy,” I replied.

“Come on, Stacy.” He grabbed me by the hand and dragged me down the hallway and out the front door.

As we walked the two blocks or so, he talked—an incessant stream that I couldn’t have interrupted had I wanted to. He wasn’t wearing a belt, and the worn jeans kept sliding down his hips until he would notice and yank them back up. I kept glancing out of the side of my eyes as the jeans worked their way down his hips with each step he took, revealing the tantalizing crack, the beautiful curve of his cheeks. My cock was rock hard, and then he led me across the street to a stunningly beautiful high-rise that looked like it was made of solid marble. “You live here?” I asked.

He laughed again. “I am what you would call ‘kept,’ is that the right word? My lover lives in the capital and only comes here every other week or so. I dance at Caliente when I get bored.” He pushed open the huge glass doors, and the older man working at the front desk called out, “Hola, Jesus!” He waved and led me to the elevator, pushing me inside one and hitting the 8 button. Once the elevator doors shut, he shoved me back against the glass wall and put his lips on mine, his hands wandering down into the front of my shorts. He wrapped a hand around my cock and started teasing the head with his fingertips, just as he slid his tongue deep inside my mouth and pressed his entire body against mine.

I would have let him fuck me right there in the elevator if he’d wanted to.

But then the elevator stopped and the doors opened. He laughed again and grabbed my hand, pulling me down a hallway to a cast-iron gate. He paused and unlocked it, then stepped inside and unlocked the inside wooden door, then pulled me in as he turned on the lights.

The apartment was stunning. The furniture was all white, matching the white marble floors and walls. A ceiling fan turned over the couch, and on the walls were paintings, splashes of magnificent color that looked expensive.

He shut the door behind us and undid his pants. They dropped to his ankles and he stepped out of them. His cock was hard, a drop of wetness at the tip. He knelt down and untied his boots and tossed them aside as I pulled my shirt over my head. On his knees, he scooted across the floor and untied my shoes, and I lifted one foot then the other as he removed them. He reached up and undid my belt, then my fly, and then he was gently sliding them down and off.

He smiled up at me. “Is very nice,” he said, and then took my hardness into his mouth.

His tongue felt like silk against my cock, and I closed my eyes and moaned as he began to work his mouth over it, going gently and slowly as he worked his mouth back and forth on my cock. After a few moments, though, he stopped, kissing the head, and got to his feet. “Come,” he said, taking me by the hand and leading me through a door into the bedroom. He switched on the overhead light and ceiling fan, and I was stunned. The curtains in the living room had been closed, but in the bedroom they were pulled back, and all of Acapulco Bay spread out before me.

“What a view,” I gasped out as he went around me, and then moaned as he spread my cheeks and slipped his tongue into my asshole.

Oh…my…God.

My entire body went rigid as he went to work on my asshole. His tongue was ravenous, licking and probing, darting in and out, his lips working on the surrounding skin. I couldn’t help myself, I bent over and leaned on the bed as my entire body shuddered with pleasure. I could barely keep my eyes open as the pleasure swept through my body in waves, and my balls began to ache with desire.

And then he stopped.

“You taste so good,” he whispered into my ear from behind as a probing finger went into my asshole. “And your ass is so beautiful…”

He pushed me onto the bed, and I rolled over onto my back as he slipped a condom over that huge cock.

My eyes widened.

There was just no way that could fit inside me.

He squirted lube onto the condom, then onto his hand. He smiled down at me. “You will like,” he insisted, and then he got on the bed, raised my legs, and pressed the huge head against my entry.

Relax, relax, relax, don’t fight it.

Cum began leaking from my own cock as he slowly and gently began to work himself into me.

I’d never felt anything like it before; he was filling me and stretching me… I took a deep breath and focused again on relaxing.

“Oh my God.” I breathed the words out as he went deeper inside me. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, trying to stay relaxed, trying not to resist this massive invasion, bigger than anyone I’d ever had inside me before.

“Oh, you feel so good,” he cooed, smiling at me as he began gently tugging on my nipples, as he kept moving deeper into me, slowly, ever so slowly.

And then, with a final thrust, he buried himself.

All of my breath rushed out of me in a moan, and I came.

Oh…my…God.

And then he started slowly pulling back, pulling himself out of me.

It was indescribable. I’d never felt so amazing, so good, so much pleasure…and when all that was left inside me was the head, he slammed back into me and I cried out as I came yet a second time…but I didn’t want him to stop, I never wanted him to stop, I just wanted him to pound me, to keep pounding me with that godlike cock, to pound on me until every drop of cum inside me was drained, till my balls were empty, and I heard myself growl, “Fuck me…fuck me…fuck me…”

And as he slammed back into me, I rammed myself against him. I wanted him inside me as far as he could go. I wanted that cock to fill me, to fuck me.

He smiled and we developed a rhythm, pulling away from each other before slamming together again.

I started stroking my own cock, already sticky from the two times I’d already come, and kept murmuring, “Yeah, fuck me, man, keep fucking me…”

I’d never been this way before.

I’d never felt like this.

I didn’t want him to ever stop. I wanted him to fuck me until I died, because there was no way I would ever feel like this again, I wanted to die and go to heaven with his huge monstrous cock inside me, pounding, pounding, pounding…

And just as I came a third time, he let out a cry and his entire body convulsed…and when he was finished, he pulled himself out of me, stripped the dripping condom off his cock, and smiled down at me.

“Oh,
papi,
what a wonderful ass,” he breathed as he took a towel and wiped my cum off me.

And then, he lay down next to me and within a matter of moments, was asleep.

And I had gone out to the balcony to smoke and watch the storm roll in.

I dressed quietly, retrieving my clothes from the floor in the living room where they’d been scattered. I walked back into the bedroom, knelt down, and brushed my lips against his cheek. “Thank you, Jesus,” I whispered. He shifted in his sleep, but didn’t wake up.

I walked back to the elevator and out to the street to flag down a cab. All the way back to the dock, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

He wanted
me.

Maybe…maybe I wasn’t such a loser after all.

And as I climbed the walkway back onto the boat, the storm broke around the boat, drenching me in warm rain. But I didn’t care. It felt good.

I glanced at my watch as I got back to my room. Five in the morning. I had just put the keycard into the slot when a door directly across the hall from mine opened and a guy wearing a pair of jogging shorts, socks, and shoes stepped out.

He had a magnificent body.

“Morning,” I said, nodding. “Going out for a jog?”

One of his eyebrows went up and he smiled at me. “I want some exercise, at any rate.”

I pushed my door open and stood aside. “Well, come on, then.”

His hand brushed against my crotch as he went into my room.

I closed my eyes.
Thank you, Jesus,
I thought quickly as I shut the door behind me.

Maybe this cruise wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Leaving Fresno

Max Reynolds

The heat comes up before sunrise in Fresno. A harsh, blaring heat, loud and insistent. A heat so intense it seems suited to a more brutal and unforgiving landscape than this lush, bustling agricultural town in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley. Tiny, sleepy villages fan out from the flat hub of Fresno—Pixley, Surrey, Waco, more. Each has its own surreal greenery, each its specialty: cotton, artichokes, avocados, strawberries, soybeans, tomatoes, grapes, carnations, roses. Everything you eat, everything you wear, everything that sits on your table from soup to nuts, from wine to dessert, to your very napkin—everything you want comes from here.
Everything.

Gabriel Luñez stood leaning against the squat, whitewashed one-story square that had served as home to him and his two brothers for the past three years since they had come up from Tijuana to work the California fields. Four a.m. on a late June morning in Fresno and the sky was still—for another half hour, maybe a little more—irrepressibly black. The stars begin to recede as dawn encroaches and it was true that out here the night was thick and deep. No light pollution like in L.A. where it was never truly dark, even in the hills. Here on the outskirts of Fresno the night enveloped you in a caress surprisingly soft, achingly real. Here, as Gabriel leaned back with a long sigh against the flaking stucco wall behind which his brothers slept, here as Gabriel ran his strong, tanned, work-roughened hands first slowly, then more urgently over the cock stiffening in his loose jersey shorts and pinched his dark nipples again and again until they began to hurt a bit, the heady night was the only thing holding him. It wouldn’t take long for him to come, unless he drew it out, made it last, like he had the night he had seen that boy, that blond
Anglo,
Joey, the one who hauled the carnations out by truck across from where Gabriel was walking home from the orchard. That Joey, slender and tall, like the flowers he hauled up Route 85, too blond, too
gringo blanco
to be out in the full sun every day. But there he was, Joey, in the twilight, on his knees, in his jeans and the white T-shirt that always had little streaks of color from the flower petals smeared here and there. There he was, Joey, that sweet, supple
Anglo,
sucking the dick of the field manager, Mr. Adamos, in the half-light outside the office on the edge of the carnation field. Sucking his cock like he knew how it was done and liked doing it. Sucking Mr. Adamos’s dick with his hands pressed up against his balls and his knees spread wide in the soft brown dirt. Gabriel had stood and watched. Just stopped in the twilit lanes of the carnation field as the colors bled out of the flowers and into the night and tried not to grip his own hardening cock as he watched young blond Joey suck his boss’s dick till the older man pulled it out of Joey’s mouth and jerked it fast onto Joey’s petal-smeared T-shirt, all the while urging Joey in Spanish to rub his balls harder and faster. Gabriel had run his hand over his dick then, exhaled deeply into the sharp-scented night, felt a small damp spot on his pants near the head of his cock, and had watched as the scene ended outside the office with Mr. Adamos reaching down and touching Joey’s face. Then he folded his cock back into his pants, pulled some bills from his wallet, and walked away as Joey got up from his knees, took a cigarette out from behind his ear, lit it, and smoked as he leaned against the back of the truck.

*

The carnation farm came flush up against the orchard Gabriel worked with his brothers. Gabriel like to cross through it some nights on his way home, letting Diego and Luis take the old Corolla back home or out to meet with some
chicas
down from the canning factory over past Alameda
bodega.
Sometimes they’d rag him, make him come along, tell him he needed to get laid, get some nice
mestiza
pussy, take some of the ache of the day away. If they pushed, he’d go. But that night, the night he’d seen Joey, Gabriel had begged off, claimed exhaustion and too much irritation with the day to be around people. Walking back to the sweaty box of a house through the sharp-smelling lanes of the carnation farm, feeling an ache of need and emptiness, he had come upon Joey on his knees, Joey, pulling on Mr. Adamos’s cock the same way he had sucked on the Corona at the bar that night they had shot a few rounds of pool with some of the other workers.

That’s where he had seen Joey before, spoken to him a few times. They had run into each other at the
bodega
and the little low-rent bar the field workers went to after work on Fridays, had a few Coronas. Gabriel’s English was good—much better than Diego’s or Luis’s. His mother had pressed him, over and over, to try and learn before he left Tijuana, to help his brothers out. Gabriel, who could read, which his brothers could not; Gabriel, who wanted out of Tijuana to make some money and make some life that didn’t include days spent breaking his back like his father had done till the day he died. Gabriel had taken his mother’s advice and had gone in search of teachers. He had hung out at a dank little club just in from the border where
Anglos
came across seeking drugs and sex—foreign pussy and hot cock—and he had learned first some passing English which he shared with his pleased mother and then better English which he stored for later, for when
he
would cross the border.