No Complications. No Strings.

This is how it goes down. No complications. No strings.

He’s wary of giving me too much up front. I get that. There are parts of my life I don’t hand out on request, either. I don’t share with guys my phone number on a first chat. Or a second, or third. Nor my address. If it’s hookup time, they’ll get the information they need. Otherwise, fuck it. I don’t know what they’re going to do with my numbers.

So on the day he’s flown into town, I travel into the city. Take the 4 train down to Wall Street, then walk to place he’s staying. It’s a little boutique hotel across from Delmonico’s, where a porter peers at me through the glass in the front doors. I call him on the phone.

“I’m here,” I tell him.

“I’m ready,” he replies. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice. It’s lighter than I’ve imagined, higher, more of a tenor than the baritone I’d expected. It has a bit of a flutter in it, as if he’s nervous. I hear him clear his throat.

“I’m ready . . . what?” I ask.

“I’m ready, sir,” he says. The three words are breathy. Excited.

“Give me your room number,” I tell him. He does. I lower my voice, as if there’s a possibility I might be overheard. There’s not. Even though it’s midday, this particular little side street is fairly quiet. “Now listen, you little shit. After I hang up, you’re gonna have three minutes to strip down, get the lights low, and assume the position. You’ve got your blindfold?”

“Yes,” he says. I can almost hear the gulp he lets out.

“It’d better be on. And after I hang up, I don’t want to hear a word from you until I’m zipping up to go. Then you'd better fuckin' thank me. And you'd better fuckin' mean it.”

“Yes,” he breathes. I don’t know whose pulse is louder—his or mine.

“Any questions?”

“No,” he says.

“I’m not gonna romance you,” I tell him. “I don’t give a shit whether you come or not. Got it?”

Then he adds, “I understand.”

“Then let’s make it happen. Oh. You got my dough?”

“Yes,” he says, for a third time.

“Have it out for me or I’m not even sticking around. I’m coming up.”

I end the call. It amazes me that anyone buys my tough top act. That it passes for genuine says something about how heavily invested men can be in their fantasy version of me. Then again, perhaps it is genuine. I pull it out often enough. I’m confident that this guy is going to follow my orders. I know exactly what he wants, and I say what he needs to hear. I’ve got no hesitation; I know that the sex is going to happen with no complications. No strings. Maybe the confidence to pull it all together all it really takes to be that tough top.

The door’s cracked when I get up there. The lights are off. There’s enough daylight in the room that I can see everything in a hazy relief. His laptop on the desk. His suitcases on the stands. His suit, neatly pressed, hanging on wooden hangers just inside the closet door. And most importantly, this man kneeling on the bed wearing nothing but a jock. His head is at a level lower than his ass, but it’s craned forward, staring blindly at the wall. He’s got some kind of mask on his face. There’s a hole for his mouth, but he can’t see anything. The eyes are completely covered.

The money’s in an obvious place. He’s tucked it under the elastic of his jock, so that the bills cover the small of his back. I let them stay for now. I don’t even stop to count them. I can tell by the sleekness of his luggage, the cut of that suit, the expense of the highest-end Apple laptop, that he’s not going to be stiffing me. The guy’s not ugly by any stretch of the imagination—not from what I’d seen in his photos. He’s built. He’s got a narrow waist and a little round ass that’s seen a lot of squats at the gym. His thighs are broad at the top. Muscular. His shoulders are strong; the arms that hold up his torso are well-rounded, powerful.

When he’s originally contacted me and asked if my cock was ever for hire, I’d added to my affirmative that with his looks, he could get any dick he wanted in this city. I prefer to pay, he’d said. It makes for no complications. No strings. I get that, too. Sometimes it's worth shelling out a little extra for quality.

That’s what I plan to give him. Value for the dollar.

Sound is going to be his main sense for this encounter, to start. I let him hear me circle the bed. I let him hear me kick off my shoes. Unbuckle my belt. Pop open the button of my jeans, unzip the fly. I let him listen to the sounds of the cotton as it slides over my head and off the chest, and hits the floor.

Taste. I open his mouth. Pry it open, with my fingertips. Cram my half-hard cock in. He gulps at it greedily, getting it hard between his lips, letting his tongue travel the length. He slurps at my balls. His hand reaches out to grab my shaft, but I shove it away. It’s the mouth and nothing else. He’s got to prove he deserves it.

Touch. I slap his ass hard. He doesn’t know it’s coming until the split-second before, when the rush of air gives him only enough warning for his mind to raise a primal alarm. He cries out and chokes around my dick, but doesn’t say a word. I slap the other ass, harder. Instinctively, he lets my cock slide out of his mouth. His hips thrust higher in the air. He buries his face in the duvet.

I walk around the bed’s edge. Yank him to the side. He puts up absolutely no resistance whatsoever as I jerk him into a position where I can fuck him without having to tiptoe, or to spread my legs to lower myself down to him. His neck’s at an angle; his shoulders are pinned down, their blades poking out his skin. He looks like a broken rag doll.

The hole’s lubed up already. Good. I’m glad not to have to waste time with that. I spit on my dick to give it a little extra moisture. Line it up with the hole. Press in. I go a little faster than usual; I don’t really give a shit whether it’s too fast for him or not. His hole opens up, though. It’s been well-fucked through his life. The edges of the fifty-dollar bills scrape against my pubes when I sink to the bottom. They’re new bills, too. Crisp, clean, sharp-edged, fresh from the bank stack. I leave them there. I don’t really care if they get a little fuck juice on them.

He’s trying hard not to talk, I can tell. He should’ve put a gag in. He starts to utter the first syllables of exclamations like Oh god or fuck or shit, but he’s got enough presence of mind to let them wash away. Ohhhhhhhh, it comes out, and fuuuuuh, and shiiiiiih.

“That’s it,” I’ll tell him. “Yeah. Open up.” Or, “Squeeze down. Make it tight. Come on.” I grunt. I slap the ass. But mostly I make sure he feels fucked.

Because that’s what they want. They want to know they’ve been fucked. They don’t want some guy climbing on and giving little rabbit thrusts that wiggle and jiggle their butt cheeks. They don’t want some novice who thrusts in twice and shoots. They don’t want a small dick that can’t do the job. I take long strokes, all the way in and a little beyond, then all the way out save for the tip. I let him feel the length of it. I squeeze the pelvic floor to make it swell when it’s at its depth, so that he feels the girth.

Men like this could have anyone, but they pick me. They pick me because I’ll give them exactly what they want. No complications. No strings. I make this guy’s ass sing from my cock. It’s vibrating. He’s humming to himself beneath me, and there’s a dark wet spot on the fabric of his mask from where he’s drooling from the side of his mouth. He’s blind with that cover over his head. But he doesn’t need to see. Everything he needs to know is centered in one place: his slick little pucker and the eight inches of colon just beyond. All the knowledge in the world, all the money in Wall Street, all the power and trinkets and accoutrements of his lifestyle, the money flapping back and forth over the small of his back as I fuck in and out for endless minutes—it all means nothing while I’m there. What matters is my cock. His hole. And the rawest of sensations I’m producing by introducing one to the other.

He remembers not to speak until I’ve pulled on my shirt, my pants, my shoes, and I’m zipping up. “Thank you, sir,” he says, in the meekest and most submissive of tones.

I snatch the bills from his jock strap. They’re not as pristine as they were. I stuff them into my pants, and take a last look at the load spilling out of his ass. “You’re welcome,” I say. Because I can tell he means it.

Then I turn on my heel and leave him there. And I wonder how long he’ll lie in that half-darkness, dreaming about what came before.