Trade

He was leaning against the back of his truck when I pulled into the parking lot near my new home, hands deep in his pockets. The setting sun left golden auras around everything basking in its rays, in a late benediction before it would set for the day, ten minutes later. The man was already golden enough—an Apollo of sun-bleached hair on his tousled head, on his thick forearms, and covering the sun-tanned legs sticking from out of his shorts. His shoulders were broad and muscular; his face model-handsome. He could easily have had any man he wanted.

He’d wanted me.

I nodded as I pulled in. Over the air conditioning and through the window I heard him cough nervously and straighten. He checked me out when I stepped out—feet stuffed into my size eleven sneakers, the deep V-neck of my T-shirt sloping down my chest, my camo shorts hugging my legs. Then our eyes locked. This was a wealthy man, I realized, once I saw that face up close. He might have been driving a landscaper’s truck, but it wasn’t the truck of a laborer, or a day-to-day contractor. It was the owner’s truck, a truck that had nary a scratch or sign of use. That truck had never carried a tool, or a bag of cement, or a load of slates for the large homes in the area. His clothes were casual, but expensive. His face was well-cared-for, and his haircut pricey. I know the signs of Connecticut wealth.

“Hey,” I said, holding out my hand. He started to offer me his left. I noticed the gold band on his ring finger. He switched at the last moment to his right, in a handshake that was firm, but sweaty.

He wanted to say something. His lips worked in a way that betrayed his nervousness. “You look like your photos,” he said in a deep voice.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” I asked. He shrugged. Man, he was a wreck. It was obvious he didn’t do this often, if he’d done it before at all. I wondered what it had taken for him to summon the nerve to meet me here. An easy lie to the wife and the cost of a quart of milk for the trip home? A Valium? A shot or two? “You wanna—?” I jerked my head at the back doors of his van.

“Oh, yeah.” For so fluidly muscular a man, his motions were jerky and abrupt as he yanked open the doors. He gestured for me to enter.

I was right, I realized when I slipped inside. No matter how butch it looked from without, inside it was luxury. The floor was carpeted; leather upholstery covered the seats. The interior was clean, and shampooed, and save for a small box of baby toys behind one of the rear seats, surprisingly devoid of anything personal. There was enough room in the back for a couple of men to stretch out, as he’d promised. I sat on my haunches until he’d climbed in and shut the doors behind him. Then I sat down and spread my legs, letting my hands rest on my crotch.

He sucked in his lips so that they disappeared for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “I . . . what do we do now?”

He couldn’t have been more than thirty-six or thirty-seven. His own furry legs scissored in and out. “Well,” I said, not betraying any emotion. “I think we’d agreed upon something.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill clip, round and fat enough to look like a prop from some episode of The Sopranos. He skimmed through a couple of the larger denominations to a series of twenties, then counted out bills in three sequences of five. Once he was done, he handed them over, then stuffed the remainder in his pocket. I took the curled bills, without breaking eye contact, and stuffed them into one of my pockets. “Is that okay?” he asked.

It wasn’t the rhetorical question it could have been. He was genuinely worried, and craved approval. He wasn’t talking about the money, either—fifty percent more than I made the last time I whored myself out in the back of a van. “Sit back,” I told him. “You wanted to watch. So watch.”

Once he’d leaned against the opposite side of the van I unbuttoned my camo shorts. I let the zipper sound as I pulled it down. It wasn’t especially hot outside at this time of day, and there was enough of a remnant of air conditioning that I wasn’t breaking a sweat, but in the quiet I could hear the rasp of his breathing. His legs jerked involuntarily when I lifted my hips and pulled down my shorts, exposing the erection underneath.

I sat on the shorts, then wrapped my hand around my cock. The wad of cash bulged against my butt. Slowly, up and down, I worked the shaft. I squeezed my fingers until the head was purple and engorged. The slightest dome of pre-cum formed over the slit.

His rasp turned into a rattle as his breath caught in his throat. “How big?” he whispered.

I shrugged, like it was nothing. “Eight.”

“Fuck,” he said.

“It gets the job done,” I replied, staring at him. I could tell he was imagining right then, and vividly, exactly what job.

The arrangement had been only for him to watch while I masturbated in the back of his van. Plain and simple. He hadn’t told me whether he had any experience with men, but it was easy enough to guess that he hadn’t. The man stared at my dick like he’d never seen one before, or never seen one erect. Maybe not even his own. It was easy enough for me to picture him playing with his own tool only in the dark, or keeping his eyes closed as he dutifully made love to his wife. Many men don’t look at themselves; they don’t really know what their dicks look like. Or what they’re for.

He couldn’t remove his gaze from mine, though. I showed off for him in a lewd way, slapping my meat against the palm of my hand so that the noise resounded through the tiny enclosure. I toyed with the slit, drawing long strings of precum that would snap. Then I would eat the remaining clear pearl from my fingertip, all while staring him in the eye. For long minutes I stroked and showed off, growling and grunting when appropriate, and twisting my face alternately into scowls and then heavy-lidded ecstasy.

When I looked in his direction, instead of at my big dick, I could tell he had a bulge in his shorts. With his knuckles he kneaded it from time to time, but he made no gesture to bring it out. From time to time, he licked his lips. “Can I touch it?” he asked.

I thought about it for a moment. I like being touched, but somehow it seemed nastier not to let him. “That wasn’t in the price,” I said.

“Fuck.” He swallowed again, hard. “May I lick your nuts, then?”

Not can. May. I shrugged, as if somehow nut-licking was less invasive than his fingers around my dick. Immediately he lunged onto his stomach and lay down between my outstretched legs. I felt his hot breath on my balls for a moment or two, and then the tentative tip of his tongue on the skin. That wasn’t going to do. I reached down and grabbed my nuts in a clenched fist and roughly shoved them against his face, letting him smell them. His mouth opened, and I popped them in.

He licked on them and sucked the pair avidly while I continued to stroke. “Fuckin’ cocksucker,” I grunted. The words brought a whimper from him. “Don’t think you’re getting your mouth on my meat, either. Not at that price.”

“Please,” he breathed, taking a break from my balls.

I shoved the back of his head down onto the shaved sac again. “Fuck that please shit. Lick.”

I recognized the mingled humiliation and gratitude in his eyes. I’ve seen it before in the faces of hundreds of boys of all ages. And every time, it makes my cum begin to boil. I breathed out heavy streams of air as I grew closer and closer. I lifted up my hips and ground my balls into the man’s face. His eyes closed as my butt hit his chin.

“Yeah. Fuck yeah!” I said the words in my piggiest bass, just before I unloaded.

My sperm oozed out of the tip in a thick stream that dropped onto his face. He reacted with shock at the sudden wetness coursing down the inside of his nose, but I kept my hand on the back of his head to keep licking. His eyes were wide open as he watched more of my load cascade onto his face. When I was done, I wiped the tip of my dick in his hair. Then I sat back, took my shorts, and began pulling them back on.

He watched in silence, my sperm still baptizing him. Only when I was buttoned and zipped did he speak. “I want to call you again,” he said.

I shrugged, like it was no big thing.

“I’ll be discreet,” he said. “I won’t ever bug you.”

I pulled out my phone and looked at the time.

“Maybe I can suck you next time. You’ve got a big dick. A real big dick. I’ll pay.”

“I’ve gotta jet,” I said, jerking my head at the doors once more. He unlatched them from the inside. The sun had set, leaving the parking lot growing dimmer by the moment. “You know how to reach me.”
“Dude.” He was afraid to stick his head out of the van, and rightly so. It was still covered in a rivulet of sperm that had reached his chin. “That was hot.”

I only said one word more: “Good.”

Then I walked away, while he still wanted more.