Room 155

The hotel was a Howard Johnson’s fifty years ago, when my parents first moved from a cramped apartment to their first and only house. On Friday nights in good weather we’d walk three blocks down our sleepy street and see it through the bowers of trees—an orange-roofed and turquoise oasis sitting across from the freeway entrance. My dad loved the HoJo’s fried clam plate—he still esteems it (and its fifty-cent price) as one of the culinary triumphs of the twentieth century. I would tolerate my Little Boy Blue special of a hamburger patty and assorted bland vegetables, tossed on dishes sporting the silhouette of the chain’s famous Pie Man serving a kid and his dog. What I really loved, though, was the exotic, soothing dessert I was always allowed to order: a dish of orange sherbet, speared with a vanilla cookie. I played Pong, my very first video arcade game, at that Howard Johnson’s in second or third grade. Two years later there I played my second cabinet game, Midway’s Gun Fight.

Sometime in the late seventies all the HoJos in our area disappeared, though; another chain bought up the hotel, repainted the roof, and added some modern additions in the back. It’s changed hands several times since. At one point it was a Holiday Inn. When my mother died and I stayed there for the funeral twenty years ago, it had devolved into a no-name motel with hot water in the toilets and cold in the showers.

On this particular visit to my dad—my annual spring jaunt when I help him clean up his yard and do chores around his house—I’ve chosen this particular hotel to stay. Before I’ve always slept in my childhood home. My back’s not as resilient as it was in my teens, though. I can’t squeeze my six-foot-three frame into a twin bed quite as easily. But between its nadir and now, the hotel’s been renovated and refreshed to become part of a middle-tier chain. It’s close to my dad. The price is right. This hotel is respectable again.

Or so I think.


Sunday, 6 p.m.

I’ve told my dad that I’ll take him out to dinner after I check in. I’ve had a six-and-a-half hour drive from home through New York City and down the east coast with only one break. I’m exhausted. But after I get into my room for the next three days, and after I drop my luggage and my gear in room 155, I’m not super-anxious to hop back into the car again. So I flop onto the king-sized bed and fire up Grindr.

There’s someone 35 feet away from me—the photo is of a scrawny 20-year-old torso, hairless, his chin the only part of his face showing. He must in one of the rooms close by, I figure. But I’m not into hitting up 20 year-olds. When they come on to me, I welcome it . . . but I refuse to be part of any kid’s I can’t go on Grindr without all these old perverts trying to get into my pants narrative.

I’m browsing the other guys in my vicinity when the phone buzzes. It’s from that twink kid. He’s sent me a photo of himself without comment—a picture of his face. He’s got green eyes, red hair. He’s paler than me, which means practically paper-white. Cute, though. Cute as fuck. I’m still looking at his face when another photo pops up. It’s of his dick. Skinny, like the rest of him. Curved. Its head just as red as his hair.

A third pic arrives, this time of a skinny white ass. Are you at the hotel? he asks. Then, Looking for right now? I need dick.

My dad can go hungry for a half-hour, can’t he?

Give me your room number, I tell the kid.

He’s in 159—a mere two doors down from me. As far as Grindr encounters go, he’s been the closest body to me I’ve ever talked to, certainly the closest I’ve had an offer to fuck. Unlatch your door and be ready. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.

The couple of minutes is just so I can quickly brush my teeth. After I check my phone one last time to make sure he’s not changed his mind, I leave it on the room’s desk before I tuck the card key in my pocket and walk out into the hallway. I’m not even wearing shoes.

159 is two rooms closer to the ice machine. I push on the door—it gives way. It’s early evening but still bright out, but the kid’s got his privacy blind drawn and all the lights off. I can still see the luminous white of his skin on top of the bed. He’s face down. Skinny butt up.

And this kid is so damned skinny. I can feel his hipbones jutting beneath his skin as I assume my place behind him. He grinds back on the crotch of my jeans, the heat of his crack warming my dick beneath a layer of denim and the cotton of my shorts. He’s smooth, too. My fingers rub against his hole, trace up his crack, circle his buns. When I reach under to tweak his nipples, even his chest is smooth as a boy’s.

I’m hard in my jeans from his insistent friction. “You need dick?” I ask the kid. For response, he reaches above his head to clutch the headboard. His ass grinds against my bulge. “All right,” I say. “I’ll give you dick.”

There’s no romance to this encounter. No kissing. No preliminaries. I don’t even know his name. This is just some little whore in a hotel, letting a stranger nearly three times his age invade his room and then his ass. I unbuckle my belt. Unbutton and loosen my jeans. Yank down my shorts. My dick flips up from under the waistband and wedges itself into the boy’s crack. He groans at the sudden feel of flesh against his flesh.

I spit on my fingers. Work it around the length of my dick until it’s slick. Once again I spit. This time I deliver the moisture to the kid’s hole. He’s loose. Two of my fingers slip in with no resistance. Three. The insides of his chute are already slippery. Maybe it’s lube. Maybe it’s some other guy’s hour-old load.

I don’t care, either way.

My dick slides in as easily as my fingers. Maybe easier. There’s more pleasure as his hole gulps at my inches, though; when I’m all the way in, his ass constricts to clamp down on me like he never intends to let go. He arches his back, lifts his butt up even higher; I have to stand on tiptoe so that I don’t slide out.

Not that he’d let me. He’s an aggressive little whore. He starts ramming his hole down to the base of my dick. Every time he hits bottom, he grunts a little. I’m turned on by his sheer need, but I need to set the pace, here. I push down at the base of his spine to lower his ass a little, so I can stand on the flats of my feet. I keep my hand there, stilling his up-and-down motion; my other hand grasps his left hip to keep him from wriggling so much. I’m taming this little bronco, whether it wants taming or not.

He learns quickly that I’m in charge of his hole. I lift up my tee so that it’s out of the way when I thrust. “Yes, daddy, like that” he says, when I start long-dicking his hole. His voice is soft. Light. Almost feminine. Even when I’m banging him harder, spreading his skinny little legs as I push him into the mattress and kneel between his knees, he’s still softly moaning and begging for dad’s dick. I’ve got three hundred miles of driving tension to work out on this hole, and the kid is good at taking a hard fuck.

When I shoot, I’ve got my right hand gripping the kid’s skull, pushing his face into the pillow so firmly that his little cries of pleasure are muffled. My left hand is squarely between his shoulder blades, keeping him still as I bang into his skinny little ass. He can tell I’m shooting; he clutches at the sheets and says “Yes . . . yes,” as my meat throbs and expands inside him. Maybe it’s my breathing that tips him off; maybe it’s the increasing ferocity of the fuck. Either way, I shoot my three-day load inside the kid with my dick splitting him open to the maximum.

I stay in there a moment, grinding the seed in with my dick. Then I pull out. He’s left a hand towel on the side table. I use it to wipe off, while he lies there motionless. He makes no motion to rise. I then toss the cum wipe onto his butt. Pull up my shorts. Fasten my pants.

“Thanks, kid,” I say. Then I leave.

Elapsed time: 20 minutes. My dad won’t be late to dinner at all.


Monday, 7:30 a.m.

Big day planned with my dad—dental appointment, yard work, errands. But it’s seven-thirty and I don’t have to be there until nine, and I’m in bed, naked, lounging.

So I fire up Grindr again. There’s a message waiting for me from the red-headed kid: holy fuck u r a hot top.

It’s a compliment I’ll accept. He’s 12 miles distant now, though.

On the nearby screen, the closest guy is a smiling, attractive African-American kid. Bearded, skinny, young. 24, his profile says. And he’s only 40 feet away.

Fuck, lightning can’t strike twice, can it?

Apparently it can. Sexy, he messages me, while I’m still viewing his profile.

Yes, you are indeed, I reply.

Ha ha, I meant you. Are you at the hotel?

I am, I tell him. What’re you looking for?

His answer is short and sweet. White dick in my hole.

How do you like it?

Raw only, the kid writes back, and follows it by five emoji: three smiling devils, one pig snout, and an arrow pointing down.

I send him something better than an emoji: one of my dick shots. The deal clincher. As I expect, he writes back, Come now.

I tell him I’ll be there in 5, and he sends me his room number.

The night before I’d taken a shower. I’m clean enough for a morning fuck, I reckon. I brush my teeth, though, and pull on a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. Slip on a cock ring. I’m good to go.

This kid’s room is three doors down the hall away from the ice machine, on the opposite side of the hall. All I’ve had to do for both these tricks is just pad down the carpet in my bare feet. The door’s off the latch, as I instructed. I push inside and close it behind me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the absolute darkness within. I mean, I had my blackout blinds drawn in my room, but it still wasn’t pitch black in there like it is here. And fuck, is it ever stifling. He’s got the heat turned up high, even though the morning temperature is in the sixties.

The only light in the room is a rectangle that appears on the screen of his phone, in the general vicinity of where the bed should be. I aim myself in that direction and find myself hitting the mattress with my knees. My eyes are adjusting, now; I can see a figure looming closer in the dark.

A hand touches my chest; another grasps the back of my head. There’s a mouth against mine that’s hungrily seizing my lips, pushing them apart with a probing tongue. This boy’s an octopus, eight hands doing crazy things to me all at once—rubbing my dick through the thin fabric of my shorts, tweaking my nipples, pulling my shirt over my head, seizing my short hair and using it to pull my mouth harder against his own. Not being able to see him clearly—or at all—makes the situation even hotter than the room.

My dick is rock hard when finally he flips me onto my back. I feel the heat of his mouth surround me, his hand clutching at my balls as he sucks me down all the way. I groan and try to sit back up, but he pushes me down. This boy knows exactly what he wants.

He’s got my knob sloppy with his spit when he tries to sit on it. I can feel resistance from his hairy hole as he struggles to spear himself with my inches. He’s a tiny thing, like the white boy the day before. But the ginger twink had a gape that could accommodate a Boeing; this boy’s pucker is tough to get into.

Once, twice, he tries. Neither time is he successful at opening himself. Finally I take pity on him and pull myself up and stand by the bedside. I flip him face down, on his knees. I spit on my hand, then sheerly by groping my way there, I spread the moisture on his hole. Finally I guide the head to the entry point and start pushing.

Third time’s the charm.

Now that I’m actually in him, he starts to open up. I’m down to the base when he collapses his knees and lies prone on the mattress; I let my weight push him into the springs as I begin pounding. He’s craning his neck to kiss me again; he has to strain so that our lips can meet. “You want my cum, don’t you,” I observe. He makes animal noises as his answer. “You want this big white dick breeding that black ass, don’t you, son.”

“Yes daddy,” is his eager reply. “Fuck me like you own it. Please!”

He’s open, now. Hungry for dick. The mattress is bouncing up and down as I pound the shit out of this boy, and he’s loving every bruise I might be leaving on his cheeks. I’m loud when I shoot; I’m hoping his neighbors in the adjacent rooms aren’t sleeping.

Oh wait. I’m one of those neighbors.

When my spent dick slithers out, he rolls over and grabs my hand, shoves my fingers up his hole. I manipulate the sloppy flesh as he jacks himself. He shoots within ten seconds, panting and heaving from the climax.

“You sticking around?” I ask, as I grope on the floor for my shirt and shorts. “Maybe we can do this again.”

“Supposed to check out this morning, but now I’m thinking it over,” he says softly, as he rolls over to check his phone.

“Let me know. I’d like more of that ass.”

“Fuck yeah.”

I let myself out.


Monday, 10 p.m.

You ever top?

Unlike every other profile I maintain, my Grindr information doesn’t specify any positional preference. I kind of like it that way. It broadens the offers I get. In theory, anyway. In practice, most guys look at me and come to the conclusion I top.

It’s a pretty good assumption.

I’m back in my hotel room after a long day with my dad. I send this blank profile in question a shot of my dick. The guy has turned off his geolocation, so I have no idea how far he is. He sends me back a pic of his own, of a lean, lightly-muscled body sporting a pert and round little ass. He’s what, in his forties, it looks like? The next photo he sends shows him manspreading in a coffee shop somewhere, handsome, smiling, looking like a lumberjack with a latte. His left hand, clutching a cardboard cup, sports a prominent ring.

Married? I ask.

Yeah. Hope that’s not a problem. Really get into guys who like guys cheating on their wives like me. Are you one?

I breed cheaters like you, I tell him. Might as well get to the point. I send him a shot of my bare dick plunged halfway into a jocked Latin hole.

I want that, he responds immediately. Come flood my guts. Now?

I ask him where he is. Lightning has struck not once, not twice, but three times in two days: the guy is in the very same hotel, one floor up. Fuuuuuck, I love this joint. I am staying here every time I visit my old home town, in the future. It might look mildly respectable on the outside, but on the inside, it’s one hundred percent pure sleaze . . . and I love it.

I’m upstairs knocking on the dude’s door within five minutes. He’s naked when he admits me inside. He must like what he sees, because the door’s barely latched behind us than he’s yanked my basketball shorts on the floor and gobbled my knob down his throat. He’s not the most masculine guy in the world; his eyelashes and lips are sultry, almost feminine, his voice soft and light as he begs me to lie down on the bed so he can service me. Plenty of down-low married dudes get away with that in their marriages, though, without the wife ever thinking twice about it. I’ve fucked enough of them to know.

The guy’s got a hot mouth. His hole is already juicy . . . prelubed, at least. When I rub it as he sucks me, my index finger just glides right in. There are a lot of men out there who take the moral high ground when it comes to married men who cheat on their wives for dick. I’m not one of them. Depriving them isn’t going to fix their marriage. It’s not going to stop them from cruising. These fuckers are going to get cock from someone or another. It might as well be me. Especially a hot, lean piece of ass like this one.

I admire the way his hole stretches, how the chute clutches at my dick as I force my way in. Force, shit. His hole is practically suctioning my meat into its vortex. “That what you wanted?” I ask. “This big bare dick?”

“Yes sir!” he yelps, as he starts grinding back on it.

“Married dad dick up your cheating hole?”

“Fuck, are you married too?” he asks. I shove my dick all the way up that cunt, then shove my left hand in front of his face as response. “Christ. That’s even hotter, sir. Does she know?”

That answer is none of his business. I keep fucking.

“Make babies in me like you made in her, sir,” he begs. “Knock me up.”

“You want this seed, huh?”

“I’ll do anything for it. Anything,” he stresses. I don’t know what else he needs to do for it at this point; he’s already got a stranger’s raw dick up his butt in a motel. Seems like a load in his hole is the given outcome of that scenario. “Just make those babies in me, please.”

“We’ll see,” I hedge, like denying him is a serious option.

This dude is seriously into the dirty talk. Filth pours from his mouth. He tells me he wants my babies, that he needs to be bred, that his pussy begs to be always wet from my bareback breedings. I flip the married slut over and rest my forearms on the soles of his feet while I pound and he continues talking about me knocking up his cunt. It’s my most arrogant fuck pose. Look at this, it says. I could do this all goddamned day . . . and you’re just a fucking armrest and cock cozy to me.

“Is this what you do? Rent a hotel room and let strange men sodomize you, faggot?” I ask him.

“Once a month, sir,” he says, between pants. “I don’t always get as lucky as I did with you.”

I’m close to shooting. I hold both his ankles with one hand, and use the other to give one of his nipples a savage twist. The sensation makes his hole contract . . . and that’s what pushes me over the edge. I’ve cum in two other boys in roughly twenty-four hours, but jets of my goo spurt into his hole. The married guy’s eyes roll up so that I only see the whites of his eyes.

I shove all the way to the base while the last drops dribble out. “Tell me what a lucky faggot you are now,” I order.

“I’m a lucky faggot, sir. I’m such a lucky faggot.”

“Why is that?” I just want to make him say the words.

“I’ve got a fuck god’s sperm inside my lucky faggot cunt, sir. I’m the luckiest faggot in the world right now. Thank you sir. Thank you.”

It’ll do. When I pull out, his hole vomits seed; it dribbles down his butt and onto the hotel bedspread. Immediately his fingers race to collect it and shove it back in. I’ve got my shorts back on by now; my shirt didn’t even come off.

“Hope I see you again, sir,” he said, an edge of pleading coloring the statement.

“Likewise, faggot,” I say. Then I’m out the door.


I am definitely, one hundred percent, positively going to have to stay in this hotel again.