Romp and Circumstance

Randy Coulter lay on the big double bed in the air-conditioned comfort of his motel room. He had just come from a swim in the lovely pool which spread out, blue waters shimmering in the bright California sun, a few feet below the balcony of his room.

It was early December. It was also, curiously enough—even for Hollywood—hot as hell. He had finished his swim, taken a cold shower, and now he lay on the top of his bed, relaxing, ruminating, trying to catch a short nap before he dressed and went out for the evening.

The shower had been meant to serve a double purpose. He had wanted to cleanse himself after his swim, of course, but there had been an incident at the pool which had upset him, and he had also needed the shower to cool him off and calm his nerves.

He had stayed at this motel before and he was known to the management. They gave him a commercial rate. The motel was on the Strip, conveniently close to the offices where he conducted his business when he flew to LA. from San Francisco; he liked to stay there. He had struck up a casual acquaintance with the girls at the desk, they exchanged jokes, and he was sure they knew he was gay. The management discreetly closed its eyes to the occasional overnight guest he entertained in his room.

The convenience, the privacy and the comfort of the motel made it an ideal place for him to stay while he was in Hollywood.

The motel catered to all sorts of people, he had discovered. Many of them were real swingers. Randy had no objection to that, of course. He recognized the fact that time went fast, and life was meant to be lived. Now, baby. As for himself, he was twenty-five, and there were still plenty of things he wanted to do and places he wanted to see and bodies he wanted to bed before he was thirty…

That afternoon at the pool, for example, there had been a group of kids in their late teens or early twenties. He had learned that they were part of a rock ’n roll group. He had seen their bus, plastered with blatant posters, near the motel.

The kids were beautiful. The girls were often flat-chested, but nevertheless they had slim, attractive bodies, and the boys were something else. Their slim hips, tight buttocks and muscular backs, and the proximity of their glorious, blooming sex in the glistening summer sun had upset Randy immeasurably.

There was one boy, a dark Italian-looking youth, who had driven him straight up the side of the swimming pool wall. The kid had seen Randy staring at his bulging basket of his black swim trunks, had smiled at him, flashing white teeth against his bronzed olive skin, and his eyes had seemed to say, “Later, man. Much later.”

There had been no chance to speak to the kid, to arrange a date with him, so Randy had left the pool feeling pent up and frustrated.

The cold shower should have calmed him, but it hadn’t.

Lying on his bed, wide awake, his mind still flashing pictures of an imaginary sex session with the Italian kid, his cock had grown hard and now stood proudly at attention, waving to him from his loins. Randy ran his hands down his sides, over his flat firm belly, let one hand continue to his inner thigh, tickling his balls, and then grasped his throbbing dick. He started to beat it.

Wait a minute. Why waste all that delicious love juice? He had never had fantastic endurance; unless he was with an unusual trick, some guy who really turned him on, he never shot his wad more than once during a sex scene. Well, maybe once at night and then again in the morning. He ate a high protein diet, however, and when he did crack his nuts it was a production number, with thick creamy sperm ejaculating from his fat prick like it wouldn’t quit. The night hadn’t begun yet. Maybe he still had a chance to track down that Italian kid, or maybe he’d make a contact with another doll later in the evening. Why waste it all on a hand job? Mother, I’d rather not do it myself!

Still, it wasn’t easy to stop playing with himself. The stuff was piling up in his balls, his rocks were aching, his pulsating shaft twitched and shivered, anxious to release the accumulating load. But he forced himself to let go. He slapped his cock playfully. “Lie down, baby,” he said. “Go back to sleep, you dirty thing, you. I promise you, a gun as good as you are, lover, is bound to see some action before the night is over!”

He glanced at his watch. Jesus. Too early for the bars or restaurants. How to spend the evening, or even the next few hours? The television set in his room wasn’t working; the girls at the desk had promised to have it fixed, but so far nothing had been done about it. He couldn’t even watch a late-afternoon movie. He was too restless to read or write, and he was damned if he was going back to that pool. The comparative silence outside his window indicated those gorgeous hippie-type kids had probably left that scene.

He wasn’t going to sleep. That was obvious. The movie screen in his mind turning on those pornographic films was definitely not going to let him get any rest.

On an impulse he got up from the bed and searched for the address book in his suitcase. He found the number he wanted, lifted the receiver of the telephone, gave the number to the girl on the board, and then waited for the ring.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Jerry?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Randy Coulter. Remember me? I’m from San Francisco. We met three or four months ago—at the Hayloft.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure. You’re a writer, aren’t you. A redhead, too, if my memory serves me right.”

“It does. I’m a writer and I am red-headed.”

Jerry chuckled. “I remember. Red hair all over, even in the short and curly places.”

“Correct. It’s the stock and trade of my tribe—I’m flattered you remember me.”

“I sure do. We had a ball at your motel. It turned out to be a night among nights.”

“Well, thanks. I had a good time, too.”

“I’m glad you remembered me well enough to call. Usually a one-night stand, even if you do give him your phone number, turns out to be just a ship that passed in the night.”

“Sometimes a one-night stand is a ship that should have passed in the night. Other times, like with you, it’s an event to mark on the calendar.”

“What are you doing in L.A. this trip?”

“I came down to talk to a publisher about a collection of short stories I’m writing… Look, I was wondering if you were busy tonight.”

“I’m sorry, I am. I’ve got a dinner date. How long are you going to be here?”

“Just till tomorrow. My flight back to San Francisco is at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Gee, that’s too bad. I’d like to see you again. If I’d known you were coming…”

“Oh, that’s okay. I understand. It was a sudden decision. I certainly can’t expect you to change your plans just for me.”

“Will you be coming back soon?”

“I honestly don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. What about you? Any chance of your getting up to San Francisco?”

“I doubt it, in the immediate future, anyway. Gee, I’m sorry, Randy, I’d really like to see you. Under other circumstances, I’d beg off the scene with my date for tonight, but he’d kind of special…”

“Sure. Well, nice talking to you, anyhow.”

“Nice talking to you, too. Give me a ring next time you’re down here. Or better still, drop me a card and let me know when you’re coming, if you can, and I’ll promise to be free. I gave you my address, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I have it. Well, good-bye, Jerry. Take it easy now.”

“I will. Good-bye, Randy. Believe me, I am sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. Well, what the hell, we’ll make it another, time, right?”

“Sure. Good-bye now.”

“Bye.”

He hung up, feeling depressed. He remembered Jerry as a clean- cut, sexy-looking guy, tall and dark, the type he really dug, and he remembered their sex scene had been wild. Jerry would have been the answer to his prayers for the night.

Oh, well. What the fuck. When you come to town unexpected, you can’t ask old lovers or even old friends to cancel their other plans just for you.

He called three other numbers. One had a constant busy signal; either that guy had his phone off the hook, or he was the world’s longest talker. The second number didn’t answer. The third number was a friend who was just leaving his apartment that minute to go away for the weekend. Sorry about that.

Shit. Friday night and not a prospect in sight.

A paper clip, attached to one of the pages in his address book, drew his attention to the card it held in place. A business card. He remembered a friend in San Francisco had given it to him several weeks ago. Stan, the MAN, it advertised in bold type. SERVICES—WITH A SMILE.

Randy grinned as he also recalled the conversation with his friend. “Stan the Man,” it turned out, was a high-class whore—a hustler who maintained an office and an answering service. He gave out cards to his customers.

“So what are these three services he offers?” Randy had asked his friend.

“A martini before and a cigarette afterward.”

Randy laughed. “I guess there is no question about what’s inbetween-service number two, I mean.”

“No question at all.”

“That’s rather clever. This Stan sounds like he has a sense of humor. A bit unusual for a hustler, I should think.”

“That’s what makes him a cut above the average. Only if you ever call him, for God’s sake don’t ever refer to him as a hustler. He’d be offended. He likes to think of himself as a professional man, like a doctor or a male nurse, catering to the needs of the discriminate few. And I mean to tell you, baby, he is good at his job.”

Randy sat on the edge of his bed, pondering the card. He had never been with a hustler, even a high-class one; like most good-looking young guys he had never experienced the need. There was always too much free stuff around.

His friend, however, had extolled the virtues of buying a night’s sex and had defended his own actions in doing it regularly. “Look,” he had said, “straight guys, even good-looking ones, sometimes go with prostitutes, don’t they?”

“They go with dogs if they’ve got a cunt,” Randy admitted. “Anything they can dunk their fat love muscle in, they’ll shack up with.”

“Exactly. Unless you’re looking for the great romance, which many of us aren’t, it saves time, it’s much easier, and in the long run you save money, too, if you buy your sex. Because, look, when you go cruising, what happens? Maybe you spend hours finding a guy who turns you on. You buy each other drinks, or maybe you go to dinner or the theater, always with the bed idea in the back of your mind. But you spend money, my friend. And a lot of time wondering if you’re going to get it or you aren’t. When you call a whore, there’s no problem. You know you’re going to get it, you know how much it’s going to cost you, and there’s no involvement. It’s over until the next time. No dreary business of having to pretend it’s a great and lasting love.”

And some of these arguments made sense, Randy reflected. Besides, he was away from home, he was hard up, and who would ever know if he made a date with this “Stan the Man?” It might be fun.

He called the number on the card. There was an immediate answer. “Hello.”

“Stan?”

“That’s me.”

“You don’t know me. My name’s Randy Coulter. I’m from San Francisco. A friend of mine gave me your card.”

“Oh, yeah. Crazy.”

“I was wondering if you’re busy for the next hour or so.”

“Not especially. Where are you?”

Randy told him.

“I know the place,” Stan said. “Sure. I can give you an hour. No more, though. I’ve got a dinner date later on.”

“Well, all I want’s an hour. Look, my friend didn’t tell me. What’s the deal? I mean, Financially?”

“I don’t talk about things like that. If you want me to stop over for a while—wild. Any friend of a friend is a friend of mine.”

Randy laughed. “I guess I get the message. And the telephone might have ears… Are you far from here?”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Good. I’m in room twenty-one, overlooking the pool. No need to go to the desk. Just knock on my door. I’ll be expecting you.”

Randy hung up, his senses tingling. The prospect of this encounter, its daring, rather excited him. He thought of Stan’s three services. Well, the cigarettes were handy for afterward, and the inbetween service, number two, might be quite satisfactory, but what about number one? He didn’t have the makings for a martini.

What the shit. He’d give the guy straight Scotch. He did have a bottle of that. He could hurry down and get a pitcher of ice from the machine besides the pool.

He slipped on his trunks, grabbed the pitcher from the desk, and went down the stairs outside his room. The pool side was deserted. He filled the pitcher with ice from the machine and was about to start back up the stairs when he saw someone watching him from a window on the first floor tier of rooms.

His heart jumped. It was the Italian boy, standing there at the window, brazenly nude, fingering his cock. Randy gasped. He was not easily shocked, but the idea of anyone standing naked at a window in broad daylight, clearly visible to the most casual passerby, shook him up. Involuntarily, he glanced around to see if anybody else was near, if anyone apart from himself could see the Italian boy masturbating. There was no one around.

And the boy grinned at him. Randy’s heart thumped. Obviously, the boy was performing for his benefit. Then something even more amazing happened. With his free hand, while his other continued the jacking-off process, he beckoned to Randy, then pointed to his stiff, massive shaft, while his lips formed the words, “Do you want it?”

Hypnotized, the pitcher of ice rattling and shaking in his grasp, his eyes riveted on the boy at the window, Randy started slowly up the stairs to the first floor level.

The door to the room was half open. Cautiously, Randy pushed it farther. The boy had moved from the window and was now stretched out flat on his bed, one hand still stroking and pulling at his dick. “Come on in, man,” he said. “What the shit. Don’t just stand there.”

In a trance Randy moved farther into the room.

“Shut the door, for Christ’s sake. We don’t want no visitors, do we?”

What happened after that was ritual, classic, and quite ordinary in such cases, but was still, to Randy breathlessly exciting. The kid was trade, of course; there was no warmth or sympathy or the slightest bit of affection coming from him. He simply wanted his cock sucked. As Randy went down on him, he said slyly, “That’s right, baby. Eat it. Do it very good.” He grabbed Randy’s head, held him by the ears, and in a matter of seconds had shot his hot load into Randy’s mouth. In seconds after that, Randy was out of the room. The kid gave no indication he was interested in intelligent conversation or even chit-chat.

Exciting it had been, yes, but frustrating as all hell. Randy’s own rod still stood at attention in his tight swimming trunks. Disappointed, filled with a vague emptiness and physically unsatisfied, he returned to his room with the pitcher of ice.

He was still shaking from the tension and implicit danger of the situation. Oh, well, he thought, there’s still Stan the Man. He was booked to pay for stud service, and by God he’d make sure he got his money’s worth when Stan arrived.

He looked quickly around the room, making sure that all was in order for his expected guest. That Italian kid had been something. He’d use him in a story sometime. His publishers wanted him to try his hand at a Lesbian tale or a heterosexual novel, but Randy still wanted to write for the male gay market. Oh, sure, he could write a man-woman scene, he’d had some experience along that line, and he understood it; he was enough of a craftsman to pull if off convincingly. To write titillating stuff, though, you almost had to do it letting your fantasies run wild, with a hand on your stiff prick—and what really gay guy could get a hard-on thinking about a girl’s ass or belly? And who the fuck cared about bloody Lesbians, anyway? The scene was a bore.

There was a soft tap at his door, low and discreet.

He opened it to a chorus of angels, for there on the landing stood a blond giant, the original Greek god, right out of all the mythology books. He was tall, at least six-three, he wore tight canvas pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, with the two top buttons undone. Golden hairs grew in a bushy crop on his bronze chest. “Hi!” he said, grinning.

“Well,” said Randy, “you certainly got here fast.”“I came as quick as I could.”

“Come in.” Randy held the door as his guest entered. “Man, you are something else,” he said with a low whistle. “I’m not going to call you Stan. You are Adonis, Apollo, Mercury and Jupiter, all rolled into one.”

“Well, thanks.” The god grinned.

“I don’t usually go for blonds,” Randy confessed, closing the door. “Actually, I prefer the dark meat. I like those Latin and Italian types. But, baby, in your case I’ll make an exception!”

Apollo laughed. “Great,” he said. “Now I’ll tell you something. When I got the call to come here, I sure didn’t expect to meet someone as groovy as you. You’re pretty wild in the looks department, too, baby. I dig that red hair.”

“Look, I’m sorry I can’t offer you a martini. That’s part of your scene, I know. But I can give you a Scotch and water. Okay?”

“I don’t usually drink during work hours, but, like you, I’ll make an exception. Give me a short one.”

“Sit down. Sit down.” Randy fixed the drink and took it to him. “I’m not going to ask how a nice girl like you got into this racket, because I know you’ll tell me it’s because you’re just lucky… I am a writer, though, and I’m curious. How long have you been doing this scene?”

“A couple of years. Since I got out of college.”

“Do you like it?”

“Well, it’s a living.” Smiling, the giant sipped his drink.

Randy was seated in a chair close to him. He put his hand on Apollo’s knee. “No kidding, Stan. You are a fantastic hunk of man.”

“Thanks again.” Apollo looked at his wrist watch. “I don’t want to rush things, but, I do get paid by the hour, you know, and I’ve got another appointment.”

Randy nodded. He remembered that on the telephone Stan had mentioned a dinner date. He set his drink on the desk, reached over and took the half-drained glass from the god’s hand. He put it on the table, then he whispered softly, “Stand up, lover.”

They rose from their seats together. Randy moved into the arms of this Adonis. He felt the rippling muscles in the blond giant’s back as he drew him closer; he felt himself encircled, engulfed, enslaved in the tight embrace which the man returned. Hungrily, their lips sought each other’s. Randy moaned. Then he opened his mouth. He felt the god’s moist tongue plunge into his cavity, moving in and out, fucking him, working around his teeth and gums and almost going down his throat far enough to gag him. “Do it to me, baby,” he said. “Tear me to pieces… Tell me what you like. I’ll do anything.”

“Would you eat my shit?”

Randy drew back, startled. He laughed nervously. “Well, I’m not so sure about that! What flavor is it?”

Now Appolo laughed, hugging Randy close to him. “Don’t worry. I was only kidding… I don’t really dig that bit.”

“I hope not. Ugh!” Randy reached down to feel the crotch of his lover. “Christ,” he said, “what have you got in there—a crowbar?”

“It’s just an old left-handed monkey wrench. I never travel without it.”

Their mouths were pressed together once again. They breathed words into each other’s consciousness. “That cock of yours feels like part of the Bay Area Rapid Transit System, from San Francisco to Oakland. Nothing but steel track… Do you think a subway could run through that tube? God knows, it’s long enough.” Randy shivered.

He led Adonis to the bed. They fell onto it, hands groping, tongues searching, their breaths coming in quick gasps. “Take my cock out, baby,” Randy whispered. “There’s nothing I like better than a real butch guy playing with my dick. It turns me on like crazy.”

Then he felt his lover obediently reach into his trunks to seize his prick. “Jesus!” He raised his buttocks from the bed as Adonis stripped the swimming trunks from his quivering frame. “Stan,” he said hoarsely. “Stan the Man. Oh, wow! Give me that second service, baby. Give it to me good.”

He looked up and shuddered with ecstasy as he saw that his lover was on the floor between his legs, had opened the mouth in that beautiful blond head, and was about to swallow his throbbing cock. “Take it, honey,” he said, “and then fuck me. I want to feel that butch cock pushing inside of me.”

He grasped the bedclothes in tight fists as the lips and warm mucous of Apollo’s mouth descended on his shaft. He lifted his hips up to match the rhythm, up and down, as the dream lover sucked his cock. He writhed and twisted on the bed, giving up every inch of himself, body and soul, to the delicious experience.

Suddenly, then, the mouth withdrew from his prick. Randy looked up, puzzled. Adonis was on his feet, quickly discarding his shirt and pants. In a second he stood nude, in a shimmering beauty. His cock stood out like Coit’s Tower on Telegraph Hill.

“Jesus God,” said Randy. “It’s as fat as it is long. Are you going to fuck me with that? I’ll blow my mind. I don’t know if I can take it.”

“You’ll take it,” said Adonis, descending on him without any mercy. “I’m going to shove every inch of it into that tight little ass of yours. And you are going to love every second of it!”

The pain was sharp as Adonis thrust his cock into Randy’s twitching chasm. Randy clutched his giant lover to him, his hands moving over the rippling back, savoring this fantastic man with every fiber of his being. “Oh, God, baby!” he breathed. “Jesus Christ!” He bit at the muscles in Apollo’s arms. He pulled at the blond hair on his golden chest. Apollo rode him, bucking like a wild stallion. They were on the crest of a wave—diving, submerging, coming up to gasp for breath, shouting as their hearts pounded furiously in the rhythm of their passion.

They shot together. Adonis found Randy’s mouth, his tongue forced its way into the opening, in and out with the same throbbing beat of his prick pushing into Randy’s ass. He grunted. He groaned. His dick shot its hot, creamy liquid into Randy at the same moment Randy spilled his own sticky juice on his stomach. Randy yelled.

They lay silent for a moment, exhausted, waiting for energy to return, entwined in each other’s arms. The sweat glistened bright on their firm young bodies.

Finally Randy said, “That was worth every penny it’s going to cost me. What a fuck, baby. What a good, good fuck.”

Adonis rolled off of him, his blue eyes sleepy. “Always anxious to please,” he said, lying curled at Randy’s side. “How about a repeat performance?” He reached out to grasp Randy’s rod, still wet and dripping with its semen.

“Jesus. You are something, man. Give me time to recuperate, will you?” Affectionately, he rumpled the blond giant’s hair.

There was a knock at the door. Randy sat up, startled. Had they made so much noise with their thrashing about on the bed that they had alarmed the people in the next room?

“Expecting company?”

“No,” Randy whispered, puzzled. “I don’t know who the hell it could be.” For a wild second he wondered if the Italian boy was hot again and had come to his door to beg for another blow-job. Really crazy! Then the three of them—he, Adonis, and the Italian kid could make it together. Maybe the teen-ager would fuck them both. He got up from the bed and went to the door. Without opening it, he said softly, “Who is it?”

The knock was repeated, this time more insistently.

“Yes,” Randy said, raising his voice. “Who is it, please?”

The muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “Mr. Coulter?”

“Yes. Who are you? What do you want?”

“You called me about fifteen or twenty minutes ago. You said a friend in San Francisco gave you my phone number.”

Randy gasped. He turned to the blond Adonis lying out beautifully, purring like a tomcat on his bed. “Aren’t you—aren’t you Stan the Man?”

“Me? Hell, no.” Adonis was grinning, enjoying the situation hugely. “My name’s Clint Davidson. I just came to fix your television set.”

“Oh, my God!” Randy had completely forgotten about his complaint to the girls on the desk. They had promised to send a man to fix it. “Jesus Christ!”

Clint laughed. “I thought you mistook me for somebody else.”

“But you didn’t—why did you let me go on like that? Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“It’ll teach you a lesson. Maybe next time you’ll ask for identification when a guy comes to your room.” And, still laughing, Clint shrugged. “What the hell, Randy. Can you blame me? You made it clear what you wanted the minute you opened the door. I just played along with the gag… We did have wild sex, didn’t we?”

The knock at the door came again.

“Go ahead,” Clint said. “Don’t keep your friend waiting.”

A slow grin covered Randy’s face. “You bastard,” he said. “You great big, beautiful blond bastard. You know what? You said you had another appointment, but you’re not going to get away yet. You still have to fix my television set, remember—and I’ll tell you something else. There’s a swinging Italian kid on the floor below. I may invite him up here, too. What do you think of that?”

He was completely nude, but he swung the door wide open.

There on the landing stood a dark-haired boy in jeans and a white T-shirt, stretched so tight across his broad chest it looked as if he might pop out of it at any minute. His green eyes opened wide when he saw Randy, and wider still when he saw Clint stretched out on the bed. He laughed. “Well,” he said, “hello, hello, hello!”

“Come on in, Stan,” said Randy. “Join the party.”