Whore

I call him Whore. That’s what he likes to be called, preferably while I push his face down in the pillow, or as I grab a handful of his hair and yank his neck back to scowl at him. “You’re a whore, aren’t you?” I’ll growl the words in his ear, just so I can feel his muscles slacken. His resistance lessens, and I’ll drive myself into him deeper. Finally he agrees. He is a whore, yes, he is, and that’s how he deserves to be treated.

Whore looks remarkably like actor Charlie Sheen. When he first sent his photo to me, months ago, I thought to myself, That looks like a naked Charlie Sheen leaning on a giant back hoe. He followed it up with another, and I thought, If Charlie Sheen were to be prone on a giant yellow back hoe with his butt in the air, that’s how he’d look. Even now that I’ve known him for a while, I still have out-of-context Charlie Sheen moments. If Charlie Sheen were wearing nothing but a dog collar and kneeling on the floor with my boot on his neck, that’s exactly what he might look like. If I screwed Charlie Sheen, I bet he’d bang his feet on the wall over his head just like this!

In the past he’s tried to shock me with stories of how many men have had him in a weekend, a day, a single night. But I’ve been down that road myself and could match him story for story, exploit for exploit. So when we meet now we get right to business. Most nights I’ll show up to his brick duplex and by the sole light on the front porch see him through the window, sitting naked in his living room, surrounded by the antiques he inherited from his late mother, waiting for me, already hard. I’ll step inside, letting the sound of my zipper speak for me. On the edge of a baroque Victorian chair he’ll kneel while I straddle and enter him. “Whore,” I’ll whisper at last. He’ll have been waiting for that word. It’s a challenge to him. The more I repeat it, the harder he’ll meet me, thrust for thrust.

Tuesday night he greeted me at the door in a silk bathrobe with a Japanese print. Boy, I thought. If Charlie Sheen were ever to do a movie where he greeted someone at the door in a really faggy-looking bathrobe, he’d look exactly like this! “Let’s take it to the bedroom this time,” he told me.

The Whore’s not a romantic. The moment we reached his bedroom at the very back of the house’s first floor, just beyond the living room, he dropped his robe and bent over the bed, playing with his hairy crack and teasing his hole open with the tips of his fingers. “Take it,” he moaned.

I kicked off my boots. I unbuttoned my shirt, letting every release pop in the darkness before my fingers moved down to the next. I unfastened my belt, and let it jingle for a moment before the buckle crashed against the floor. My jeans slid down, over and off my feet. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Before I kissed him, before I spoke a word, I swung back my arm and then let my palm crash against his right cheek. He stifled his cry of pain and surprise. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like that . . . whore.”

“I did,” he whimpered. “I did. Please.”

I shoved myself in him right then and there, growling at him and barking orders that he was only too glad to obey. When I came minutes later, it sounded as if I was in pain; I shook and shuddered. “Don’t pull out yet,” he begged me. With some awkwardness we maneuvered ourselves onto his high bed, me on my back while he clutched onto me with his ass muscles. “Please stay in?” he begged.

“I’m still hard, whore,” I told him. “Go for it.”

He rode up and down, quivering with pleasure as I talked dirty to him and twisted his nipples. I only lasted a couple of minutes before I felt the urge to take over once more. I put him onto his knees and drove into him again and again. “Yes!” he yelled. “Yes! Yes!”

I heard the front door open right then. I stopped. “Crap, is that your tenant?” I asked him.

“Sheeeeeee-it,” he groaned. We listened to the voices outside for a moment. The guy who rents a room from Whore had brought at least one other person home with him; it sounded more like two or three. From the sounds we heard, I could picture them taking off their coats and settling down on the living room furniture to have a talk.

“I’ll make some drinks,” one of them said. “What’re you guys having?”

We were all of ten feet away. Whore got up and closed the bedroom door.

“Maybe I should go,” I told him. My clothes were in a pile on the floor, by his dresser.

“Nuh-uh,” he told me, pushing me back down. “This is my house. They’re guests in it. We do what I want.”

“Yeah, but. . . .”

“You not man enough to finish what you started?”

“Can you be quiet?” I asked.

“Sure.”

It started quietly enough, anyway. Once again I climbed on top of him and started thrusting, running my hands over his chest. Soon I was heaving closer and closer to a second orgasm. “Deeper,” he whispered. Then more loudly, “Deeper!” Then finally, “Fuckin’ BANG ME!” he yelled. “COME ON MAN, GET OFF LOAD NUMBER TWO! ARE YOU A BITCH OR A STUD? WELL? ARE YOU A PANSY-ASS BITCH OR A FUCKING STALLION, STUD?”

It was too late to keep quiet at that point. “You’re the bitch, you fuckin’ hungry whore!” I yelled back. “Come on, fuckin’ take it!”

“YEAH, FUCKER!” Right then he rolled over on me, so that I was on my back, still inside him, while he was lying face up, furiously wailing away on his erect cock. “YEAH! YEAH!” he screamed. His body began to convulse at the same time as mine. Both of us were yelling and gasping when suddenly his load flew over his shoulder and splashed me in the face.

From the living room—silence. Then a spate of furious talking.

“Wow,” he said, panting.

“No shit,” I answered.

I got dressed and tried to do something about getting my floppy hair to lay flat, but it was no use. Even in the darkness, I could see in the mirror I had that just-rolled-out-of-bed look. “I guess there’s no other way out?” I asked him.

“Nope.” The Whore pulled on his bathrobe again. “Don’t sweat it. The roommate knows I’m popular.” That’s quite a euphemism. Popular.

It had to be done. I opened up the bedroom door, grinning to myself when silence fell in the living room just beyond. Five men sat on living room furniture, staring at me. How bad can this be? I asked myself. I should have felt dirty, but I didn't. After all, they were the ones sitting on the chairs and sofas I'd had sex on many a time. “Evening,” I told them, nodding and smiling at them all as if we all were indulging in the polite fiction they hadn’t heard anything.

I didn’t look back over my shoulder until I heard someone call after me. “Thanks for making me walk funny, top stud.” The five pairs of eyes that had been staring at me suddenly swiveled to my friend in his bedroom doorway, propping himself in the frame with both hands.

“Take it easy, whore,” I called back, right as I let myself out.