Chip Off the Old Block

Michael Stamp

I think it’s going to be the college professor. He’s looked over at me at least five times in the last minute and a half, but every time I catch his eye, he pretends to be more interested in the stacks of papers and notebooks spread out on the table in front of him. Then there’s the guy in the expensive suit sitting at the far end of the bar, although the way he’s been throwing back the drinks, I don’t think he’d be able to get it up if I did go up to his room with him. I know I’d have to suck his cock just to get him hard enough to fuck me. His wife probably has to do the same thing.

There are three or four other possibles scattered throughout the bar. I know that before the night is over, I’ll be in bed with one of them. It doesn’t matter to me which one. Sometimes after I climb out of a guy’s bed, I can’t even remember what he looked like, but when I’m with him, he believes he’s the most desirable man in the world.

Deflowering a virgin is a big part of the attraction for most guys. I know I won’t be able to play the innocent forever, but with my pretty face and compact body, I can still pass for jailbait. And if a man I’m with needs it to be true, I can still make him believe it’s my first time. Face down on the bed with my ass in the air, I look back over my shoulder at him. Tears welling up in my baby blues, I bite down on my bottom lip and ask in a small voice, “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

Gets ’em every time.

And it’s not only about money either. I just love sex. Have from the first moment I realized my cock was good for more than peeing. Once I learned how to masturbate, I just about rubbed my dick raw. I figure if that old wives tale had been true, I’d have needed a white cane and a seeing-eye dog six months after I hit puberty. If sex drive is genetic, then I’m definitely my father’s son.

My old man used to say a stiff prick has no conscience. I don’t know if he really believed it, or if it was just the excuse he used for cheating on my mom all the years they were married. On the night she died, he was across town screwing the new cocktail waitress at Benny’s Pub. I was with Mom at the hospital, and when she asked me where Pop was, I said he was still at work, but that he’d be there soon. I think she believed me. She was so stoned on painkillers I don’t think she could tell it was long past his quitting time. Or maybe she knew the truth. She’d been married to him long enough to know. I always wondered why she didn’t just get the hell out when she had the chance. Maybe it was because of me. Or maybe she was just a glutton for punishment.

Pop couldn’t get enough of the ladies, and he was proud as a peacock when he thought I was following in his horny footsteps. He walked in on me once when I was jerking off in the bathroom. I thought he’d freak, but he just laughed and said, “Don’t wear it out, stud.” When I came out of the can, he slapped me on the back and told me, “Looks like you’re going to be a chip off the old block after all.” He’d pretty much ignored me before that, but afterward he was almost human.

All that changed when he found out the stiff prick doing the fucking wasn’t mine. I suppose it would have been better if I’d told him about me instead of letting him find out the way he did, but sometimes shit happens, and all you can do is clean up the mess.

Pop had a routine and he never changed it. His work day at the construction site ended at 3:30, and every afternoon, without fail, he’d stop off for a drink with his buddies from the crew, then come home to change clothes before going out again. He spent his nights with a variety of women, some married, some not, but they all seemed to be crazy about my old man, even though I never could see the attraction myself. Anyway, I knew once he went out to get laid, he wouldn’t be home until at least two or three in the morning, and that meant I was free to do some entertaining of my own.

I like to think God exists, but if there is an all-seeing, all-knowing being up there looking down on us poor, fucked-up mortals, I think the son-of-a-bitch has a sick sense of humor. Why else would he have made my father come home early on the night I finally got Brian Russell to have sex with me?

Pop opened the front door and went right into the kitchen to get himself a beer. Then came into the living room to watch television. That’s where he found me: bent face down over the back of the sofa, my jeans around my ankles, and the captain of the football team standing behind me, ramming his cock up my ass. Brian’s pants were around his ankles, too, but he was still wearing his warm-up jacket. There wasn’t any way to lie myself out of it except to cry rape, but considering all the moaning and groaning I was doing while I was getting fucked, I don’t think Pop would have believed me.

My old man went ballistic when he saw us—got so mad he was practically foaming at the mouth. Brian pulled out so fast I heard a “pop” when his bulbous dickhead left my asshole. His cock was still so stiff he couldn’t get his pants up over it. I can still remember how funny old Number 7 looked heading for the front door, holding up his pants as he ran. Pop sent a string of curses after him, but didn’t try to catch him. I was the one he was interested in. He grabbed hold of me and threw me down on the floor. Then he proceeded to beat the shit out of me.

Each blow made me see stars. And each time he made contact, he followed up his physical blow with a verbal one.

A vicious backhand across my face.

“Queer!”

A right to the chin.

“Cocksucker!”

A left jab to my eye.

“Pansy!”

What I remember even more than the pain was those words. With my head pounding and my ears ringing, all I could think of was how amazing it was that my father knew so many different words for this one thing he hated so much.

Pop had never worked me over that bad before, not even when he’d been drinking. He kept it up until his ham-like fist punched me in the stomach and I puked up my dinner. Then he stopped, leaving me in a pool of my own vomit and telling me to clean up my faggot mess.

I didn’t move until morning, and then only enough to drag myself into bed. He kept me out of school for a week, wouldn’t even let me out of the house. I guess he was afraid if someone saw me they’d report him to the cops for child abuse. But the minute the bruises began to fade, he threw me out. His parting words were, “I knew you’d never amount to anything. You’ll end up peddling your ass on the street!”

I didn’t mind leaving. I didn’t say goodbye. There’d never been much love lost between us, even when Mom was alive. We were two people who happened to be living in the same house. Considering how many he knew, I didn’t think Pop would have anything against whores, but your opinion’s bound to change when you find out you’ve fathered one.

Most likely I would have gone off on my own in a couple of years anyway. His finding me like that just made it sooner rather than later. I was sixteen when he kicked me out, and I haven’t seen him since. I wonder if he ever thinks about me, and whether he’s sorry. Sometimes I fantasize about running into him one day, and rehearse what I’d say to him if I did. I guess I’d tell him his prediction about me came true. Peddle my ass I did, but I never had to sell it on the street.

I wasn’t on my own very long till I discovered that there were plenty of men happy to take me under their wings. Closeted gay men, salesmen on business trips, sometimes just lonely men flattered by the attention of a beautiful young man.

The first time it happened I didn’t plan it, but I was smart enough to realize a nice dinner and a good fuck in a plush hotel room beat sleeping at the bus station. After that I went looking, and I rarely came up empty. I staked out the better hotels, the ones businessmen used when they were in town. I’d wait until six or so, when they started coming back from their meetings. Right before I went inside, I’d stick a finger up my nose until it bled, then wipe the blood around my mouth until I looked a real mess. Then I’d wait. It never took long. Most of them just gave me a suspicious look and walked right past, but eventually at least one middle-aged guy would stop and ask me, “What happened to you, son?”

I used lots of different stories, but my favorite one had me in town for a college interview. “I took a cab from the airport,” I’d tell him, “but when I got here two guys knocked me down and stole my suitcase.”

“That’s terrible,” my kind-hearted stranger would say. “This city’s getting to be such a dangerous place.”

“I know I should have been more careful,” I’d whimper, “but it’s my first time away from home.” I’d pause and wipe my nose, then continue, each word punctuated by a sniffle. “All my clothes were in my suitcase, and all my money. I was supposed to stay at this hotel, but now I can’t pay for the room. I don’t know what I’m going to do!” I always made my bottom lip quiver when I told my sorrowful tale, and forced one lone tear down my cheek. That always sealed the deal. My good Samaritan would take me into the men’s room to clean me up, then into the hotel restaurant where he bought me dinner as I continued to pour my heart out to him.

The first couple of times I pulled it off, I couldn’t believe that the guys never asked why I just didn’t call my parents and have them wire me some money so I could get home. Then I realized that they never asked because they didn’t want to know the truth. It would have spoiled the fantasy for them.

After dinner came an offer to put me up in the hotel for the night, which always meant sharing their rooms and their beds. It always started out platonic, but then I’d pretend to break down and they’d hold me until I calmed down. Pretty soon we were both naked, and the touching had nothing to do with comfort. Maybe it was guilt for cheating on their wives, but they were always so pleased after I’d sucked them off or let them fuck me that they insisted I take money—“Just enough to tide you over”—until I could get back home. I always refused and they always insisted, and I knew just how much to protest before I gave in and accepted their generosity.

After I’d done it for a few months I thought I’d seen it all, but there were always surprises. Guys so good in bed I felt like I should be paying them. And finding out the things I dreamed of having done to me weren’t as shocking as I’d always thought they were when I fantasized about them in my bedroom back home. What really shocked me was who wanted to do them.

There was this old man who looked like somebody’s kindly old grandfather. At first I felt guilty scamming him—until I found out he wanted sex from me, just like all the others. Only he wanted to tie me up first. I didn’t mind, not even when he used his silk necktie to gag me while he tanned my ass with his leather belt.

I couldn’t stop crying when he was done. He hadn’t hit me very hard, but the feel of the belt brought back memories of beatings Pop had given me. I thought the old man would get scared and take off. Or if he stayed, that he’d get angry with me. He didn’t do either. First he untied me, then he took me in his arms. I never knew my own grandparents, so it was nice to lie there with my head in his lap while he rocked me.

Of course his comfort didn’t stay grandfatherly for long. When I’d finally calmed down, he moved his cock to my mouth and gently slipped it between my lips. All the while I was sucking him off, he stroked my hair and murmured, “That’s my good boy. Let Daddy make it all better.” And he did.

Being tied up that first time felt as good as I’d always thought it would, and as good as it has every time since. I can’t really explain it, but when I’m tied face down on a bed, my mouth filled with a gag, and my ass filled with a hard cock, I feel powerful, even though the guy doing the fucking thinks he’s in charge.

Ruses aren’t necessary anymore, but I still let them rescue me if they want. It doesn’t happen as much as it used to. Most of them want to get right down to business. How much, how long, what their money’s going to buy them. Most guys give me more than we agreed on if they want to tie me up first, even though I’d throw it in for free. I enjoy it so much that I even suggested it to a guy once, but I’d read him wrong. He’d been totally turned off by the idea, and he almost asked me to leave because of it. I learned my lesson after that. The customer is always right, so I let them tell me what they want before we get started.

Hey, what do you know? The professor’s finally making his move.

I just knew he was going to be the one. I want to laugh as I watch him make his way over to me, his bulging briefcase under his arm and the pencil still behind his ear. He looks pretty comical, but what I notice most is the expression on his face. Real uncertain—almost scared—as if he’s going to change his mind at the last minute and take off. I’ve seen that look before. He probably hasn’t had much experience with this kind of thing.

Well, if that’s the case, he’s definitely come to the right place. He may be the professor, but even though I never even finished high school, I’ll bet I can teach him a thing or two.