Fucking was every bit as good as he had anticipated.
Bernie had grown up in a religious household where the very mention of sex was taboo. He'd found out about what men did to women in bits and pieces -- from his friends, from stories whispered in the schoolyard, from the dirty pictures passed around in the lavatory. It was dirty, sex was, and there was nothing in the least alluring about it. Just thinking about it made him nauseous. He had just turned 13, and it was 1959.
Sex. He didn't want any part of it, but still he kept getting these strange urges. It got worse as he got older, and hair began sprouting on his face and chest.
He was afraid of girls. They were strange and mysterious creatures who wanted to entice him to do these sickening things. Kissing, and touching, and all that other stuff. But he needed something. He just didn't know what.
"Is that what queers do? They actually stick it into -- "
He overheard the boys talking about it, and he couldn't help wondering if he was queer. Because he didn't like girls, and all...
It didn't much matter. Bernie had been thinking it over for years. Years of enduring the taunts of classmates. Years of being dragged to priests and counselors and psychologists by his parents. Years of misunderstanding and torment.
I am what I make of myself, he had finally decided. I'm entitled to my own measure of happiness, and if I have to be queer to get it, then that's just the way it is!
He finally turned 18 -- a free man, and on his own. He knew all about sex now and about what queers did, but he had never actually done any of it. Now he could. If and when he wanted to.
"Look, kid, are you sure you want to go through with this? Once you cross over the line, there's no going back. I mean, you are one of us -- I can always tell -- but this is a big step, especially for someone as young as you."
"I'm sure. Do it to me. Do me, man. Fuck me in the ass."
Bernie liked the feel of it. He enjoyed the sensation of the cock head pressing against his tight sphincter, then, as he relaxed and pushed gently out to open himself up, the stretch as he dilated and the pop as the tip of the cock cleared the muscle ring and the shaft began its long, long slide up into him. He loved the in-and-out movement of the shaft inside him, and the feel of his own dick hardening and pulsing to the rhythm of the thrusts within him. He loved the shudder and the groan of his lover coming inside him. He loved the hot surge of release and the spurt of wetness high in his gut. He loved it when he himself came just from anal stimulation, from the friction of the cock in his ass, from the vibration of his prostate from deep inside him.
Bernie had been tightly controlled all his life. Hiding his feelings had been a matter of survival. Only now, while he was being ass-fucked, could he fully let go and become part of the greater whole. Part of the energy that fueled the universe. Part of the Cosmic Machine.
Even after being fucked several times in a single session, Bernie felt fine. There was no residual soreness down there, down there in his asshole and inside him.
Out of curiosity, he asked John, his current lover, to bring over several friends, so they could all "party" together. "You're absolutely certain?" John asked. "These guys, like me, they're tops. They'll all want to do you, especially seeing what a fine piece of ass you are. Not that I'm the jealous type, but could you take it -- being fucked eight or ten times in a row?"
There were five guys there, all told, and Bernie ended up being fucked at least a dozen times before he lost count. It was getting a little blurry there toward the end, though. By then, he was starting to get quite a bit chafed and sore down there. But it satisfied some deep and primal need inside him, being filled up with the magical discharge of hard cocks, so much of it that it dripped and seeped out of him and ran down the inside of his thighs in rivulets.
Afterward, sitting alone his room, tears running down his cheeks and with his head in his hands, Bernie didn't know whether to feel exhilarated or degraded. He had either transcended the limitations of personal identity or let erode part of what made him a unique individual. Some of both, probably.
Bernie hated his job. He had worked his way up to stock clerk in the appliance warehouse, so at least he didn't have to do heavy lifting any more. But filling out forms and tracking inventory all day was just so damn boring. And the pay wasn't much. It was nowhere near enough to provide the little niceties that he was starting to appreciate.
Wouldn't it be nice if he could make money doing what he liked? And just what did he like? He liked having his ass shagged. That meant charging to let himself be fucked. Just think, he could make that very ass he was sitting on into a cash cow. It had intriguing possibilities.
There were some logistics to take care of. He'd have to lay out some serious money to buy an appropriate wardrobe -- a "hustling" outfit. And he'd need to make an arrangement with a sympathetic physician who wouldn't mind treating venereal diseases of the anus, if it came to that. But all that was minor stuff.
More worrisome was the physical danger he'd subject himself to. One of his "customers" might, at any time, assault him or worse. And, what could he do to prevent it? He'd have to learn to judge a person's character before becoming involved in a transaction with him. And he might have to, as a last resort, keep a concealed weapon handy.
A gun? Too dangerous, too difficult to use in the close quarters of an assignation, too damn messy, and too damned illegal. A knife? Even more chancy. What then? A spy novel Bernie was reading gave him an idea. A hollow needle -- easy to conceal, easy to wield, and charged with a paralyzing dose of curare. Bernie had a good friend who worked in a pharmacy, and getting the curare was only a matter of letting said friend spend a night with him, a highly passionate night as it turned out.
Now, to build up a skill set that would give him an edge over the other hustlers and male prostitutes plying their trade. Bernie intended to supply highly specialized and exceptionally skilled services, to be able to command a higher price and to get a better class of clientele. He'd offer up his high-grade, trained, gourmet-class ass for fucking, but only to those who could demand -- and pay for -- the best.
Bernie worked out a training program of physical and mental preparedness. He began a daily exercise routine that included weightlifting and jogging. Yoga and deep-breathing were the key to the spiritual detachment he would need as a tool to keep himself pristine, detached in mind and emotion from the sweaty coupling of earthbound flesh. He'd need that mindset to avoid burnout in that most dangerous of professions he was intending to practice.
He needed to enhance his lovemaking skills. Delaying ejaculation and prolonging an erection after orgasm were essential for keeping control of the overwhelming physical sensations of being penetrated multiple times in succession. Then there were the techniques for enhancing the pleasure of the client. Gaining fine control of the voluntary muscles of the anal sphincter was just a matter of practice and discipline. He learned to rotate his thighs in order to impart a twisting friction to the cock inside him, learned to grip and pump the cock with his sphincter muscles, learned to ripple and pulse the walls of his rectum to milk every last drop of sperm out of the throbbing organ as it climaxed. (And, he even experimented with relaxing and opening up his esophagus so he could "deep throat" anyone requiring that particular pleasure. Didn't much care for how it felt, though.) The lovers upon which he practiced these skills were most appreciative.
He couldn't see delaying any longer. But where to start? Once he had built up a loyal customer base, then word of mouth should keep the cash flow flowing, but how could he get those customers in the first place?
Scope out the situation and observe. Bernie dressed nondescriptly -- he didn't want to attract attention, yet -- and went down to the Strip on a Saturday night. Saturday night -- date night, even for those who didn't have dates.
Even as early as 8:00 p.m., there was plenty of street action. Expensive cars were cruising slowly by, and every so often one of them would stop and pick up a "passenger." Standing along the curb in flamboyant states of dress and undress were young women... and men. This was the "Meat Rack" -- the open market for sex, drugs, and anything else money could buy. This was exactly the type of ambience Bernie had hoped to avoid peddling his own wares in. But this was where he had to start.
The driver's side of the Pinfarina coupe had its window all the way down. As the car rolled by at walking speed, Bernie felt the sudden urge to prove to himself that he actually had the balls to go through with this insane scheme. It was now or never. Impulsively, he turned his back on the car and abruptly dropped his pants and undershorts, giving the driver a momentary flash of bare ass. Prime quality butt-meat for sale, he thought. You buying?
Bernie heard the muffled click of a car door. "Get in," the man's voice said.
The driver was wearing nice, expensive-looking clothes. He looked fairly young, possibly still in his thirties, and his face seemed somehow familiar. He could have been a successful businessman, a politician, or even a film star.
The man had undone his zipper. "Suck my dick," he whispered across to Bernie.
"No way, man," Bernie said. "My ass, or nothing. Highest quality. Best piece of ass you'll ever get. A hundred dollars."
"I oughta boot you out the door, punk," the man said. "Wait a minute. I'll give you a chance to prove what you just said. Best piece of ass, huh? We'll see about that."
They were parked on a dark sidestreet. Their pants were in heaps around their ankles. Bernie was sitting on the man's lap, facing away from him. Neither of them was moving. The man was breathing heavily, and every once in a while a groan would escape him. His cock was being pumped, being milked totally dry inside Bernie's highly-trained tunnel of love.
"I guess you really do know what you're about," the man said as he tucked a hundred-dollar bill into Bernie's shirt pocket.
"That I do, and I also know that a discriminating gentleman such as yourself shouldn't need to cruise the streets when he wants a good time. I'm on call if you need me. Here's my card."
As easy as that, Bernie had his first steady client. Burke, a film producer, was married, but he occasionally needed a vacation from his wife and girlfriends, or so he said. "Yeah, I like male meat every once in a while. Those women, you know, all emotional and weepy, with hangups about commitment, and all that shit. And when they do finally put out, somehow it's just not the same. A woman's ass, even if she's a virgin down there, doesn't quite as do it for me like a man's. And yours, I have to admit, is the absolute finest I've ever had."