COMMERCE: A NOT VERY CAUTIONARY TALE
David May
You don’t feel like a man till you leave some money on the bed.
—Warren Miller
“Hey, look, Joe, it’s Ben Bohner!”
Randy was used to being recognized, and had learned to accept the usual adulation accorded porn stars with a cheerful nod, responding verbally only when required.
“Ben Dover? That’s not Ben Dover!”
“Not Ben Dover, Ben Bohner! You know, the top! See, over there?”
“Yeah, right. Man he’s hot.”
“You gonna talk to him, Rock?”
“Sure as hell gonna try. I was jerking off to him since middle school!”
Walking through this particular Chicago hotel on Memorial Day Weekend, its lobby rank with leather and pheromones and crackling with sexual energy, Randy hoped that the presence of a plethora of more recently popular porn stars wouldn’t overshadow his ability to work. He hadn’t realized until recently that he was an icon, a remnant from a fabled golden age that younger men looked upon with romantic notions of the fight for freedoms that they now took for granted. Randy had been a Pioneer in Porn, one of a handful of stars that successfully made the transition to video in the 1980s. It surprised him to learn he was still admired for something he had done not for the fame but for the mere fun of being paid to fuck.
“Hey, Bohner? My name’s Rock, short for Rockland—don’t ask. Hey, I just wanted to say I think you’re the hottest man that ever did porn, man.”
Randy turned to the young man, barely more than a boy at first glance. Rock’s smile was genuine, shared with Randy as much out of respect for his elder as for the thrill of meeting the famous Ben Bohner. In his blond crew cut and neat moustache (worn without the irony with which he wore a Cub Scout cap backward on his head), the tailored blue T-shirt with FUCK DADDY.COM printed in yellow letters, his combat boots and Nasty Pig jeans, Rock was an homage to Randy’s misspent youth: the post-plague incarnation of the clone. Randy smiled, reached for the offered hand.
“Thanks, son. It feels good to be appreciated.”
“Okay, that gave me wood, Dad.”
“What did?”
“You called me son. Here, feel.”
Rock put Randy’s hand on his groin, where a substantial erection was forcing its way beneath the denim. Randy took a deep breath. He rarely found himself so well matched, and more rarely was he impressed with the girth and length of another man’s member.
“Damn, son. You’re as big as me.”
“Fuck, yeah, Dad. Gotta kiss you now, motherfucker.”
Randy’s career had been an accident, as these things frequently are. Having left his family’s farm in Nebraska, he headed to San Francisco on the strength of the Village People’s coded proclamation of the City’s alleged Freedom. His family embraced his departure with more relief than goodwill and Randy was freed of any of the familial restraints that had hindered his happiness. On the Greyhound he had sex for the first time, with a man some twenty years older who stank of mentholated cigarettes but was able to service Randy’s huge cock with more expertise than Randy would encounter for years to come. So wonderful was the pleasure afforded by the man, who removed his teeth before sucking, that Randy returned again and again to the toilet in the back of the bus to be brought to that same joyous conclusion. He waved to the older man when he got off at Bakersfield, leaving Randy to the ministrations of his own two hands.
When he arrived at the seedy Greyhound Station in San Francisco, he took what little money he had to the YMCA, and after a shower and a hand job from another resident, set out in the pursuit of a job. Fortune smiling on him, he was quickly hired (an able-bodied young man not strung out on drugs) washing dishes at the Zim’s on Market Street and Van Ness, a job he neither relished nor dreaded. From there he was promoted to busboy, enabling him to share a room in a residency club with a closeted Christian in his thirties, a man whose time was split between street preaching and sucking dick in Tenderloin peep shows. When the man was arrested for public lewdness, his disappearance from the club went unnoticed until someone came to remove his personal effects. What was not taken was a roll of bills hidden beneath the bathroom sink, the man’s life savings that were only discovered by Randy when the tape gave way and the bills spilled to the tiled floor. Randy now had enough money to get an apartment of his own, a flea-bitten furnished studio on Larkin Street that felt like the height of luxury to someone whose days were spent earning just enough money to live while getting laid as often as possible.
The truth was he was far from handsome. Only his smile, now emphasized by the required moustache, disguised his plainness and made him appealing to those who saw past the bent nose and irregular ears (now hidden by the ubiquitous shaggy haircut) to the laughing blue eyes and enthusiasm for fleshly pleasures.
It was when he decided to join the migration to the Castro that he took a second job in one of the many dirty bookstores situated along Polk Street. He worked from eleven in the evening until four in the morning, giving him twelve hours to sleep, eat and fuck before he was called back to Zim’s the next afternoon. It had been less than a year, but Randy had already become something of a fixture on the street, at the baths, or perched high atop the desk that looked over the narrow aisles crowded with pornography and silent strangers making furtive purchases. The neighborhood boys were less circumspect, asking loudly for dildos, poppers or cock rings with the kind of aplomb that came from liberty mistaken for license. These men he served cheerfully, just as he served the frightened suburbanites with discreet, judgment-free silence.
One of these furtive men, a frequent customer, hovered quietly near Randy’s perch until they were alone for some minutes before asking: “How much?”
“Which brand?”
“Uh, your brand.”
“I like Crypt.”
“No, not poppers. You. How much for you? I wanna…”
“Want to?”
“Suck it. How much to suck it?”
“I never…”
“Hey, I’ll give you fifty, but only ’cause I know how big it is. I seen it at the tubs. Fifty to let me suck it. Ten more if you cum.”
Fifty dollars was fifty dollars, a third of his current month’s rent, a quarter of the rent he’d pay in the Castro. Randy agreed to the transaction with a nod and led the man into the back. The man knelt like an acolyte and unbuttoned Randy’s Levi’s. Ten minutes later Randy had sixty dollars in his pocket and a satisfied smile on his face. It had never crossed his mind that he could sell what he frequently gave away, and new possibilities presented themselves.
Walking down Polk Street, he observed the boys working the street and saw them as largely effeminate, sad, almost lifeless; smiling only when potential customers appeared on the street, and then showing the ravages of dental neglect and chronic drug abuse. To succeed, Randy reasoned, he would have to be what they were not: strong, masculine, approachable and friendly. His smile, he had come to realize, was the reason for much of his success thus far, and that it would carry him farther he had no doubt.
At first his sex work was incidental. Wearing the tightest jeans possible, he smiled at the men passing in automobiles and was sometimes motioned over. The slight drawl he had tried to erase since his arrival in San Francisco, he now emphasized when negotiating fees, learning that an accent from the outer reaches made him both exotic and slightly threatening, an unknown quantity whose mystery was worth the risk.
“Are you working?”
“Sure am. What can I do for you?”
“Is that package you’re showing all you?”
“Every last damn inch of it, pal.”
“How much?”
“Fifty.”
“Fifty? You gotta be kidding me!”
“If you don’t think the tool’s worth the price, I’ll find another guy who does.”
Most of the time, the customer agreed to the price. It was only when he had the fifty dollars in hand and the stranger was trying to wrap his mouth around Randy’s humongous member, that the client was informed that Randy’s ejaculate would cost another twenty dollars, payment in advance. Yet he was generous, willing to kiss and happy to comply with whatever fantasy was tentatively suggested. He remained affable unless asked to be otherwise. He took to wearing cowboy boots and a leather jacket, and to walking with a swagger. Soon he had enough to move to an apartment right on Eighteenth and Castro streets, a small, dark one-bedroom on the lowest floor. Better yet, he got hired at the Neon Chicken across the street. There he bussed tables or tended the bar. He joined City Athletic Club, took to wearing flannel shirts year round and, only on the rarest of occasions, found reason to head north of Buena Vista Park, west of Twin Peaks, south of Harrison Street or east of the Opera House. He was one of many men, a community of men convinced they had reinvented the world. A few years later someone dismissed them with the quip: Castro Clones.
“If that bulge is for real, you should be in movies.”
“Every damn inch of it.”
“Meat or potatoes?”
“Plenty of both, buddy.”
“Here’s my card. Seriously. Call me. I’ll put you in pictures.
You’ll make some money, too. But what’ll we call you?”
Randy took the card and stuck it in the hip pocket of his Levi’s. Sex work had become infrequent; it was hard to sell what so many men were giving away with enthusiastic abandon. Only when the bug bit him did he don his leather jacket and cowboy boots and swagger down Polk Street to score the odd fifty to tide him over until the next payday. Knowing he could sell it made him more particular about whom he gave it to for free. In this he was like his peers for whom sex, youth and beauty were the commodities being exchanged daily on Castro Street, where appendage sought orifice and semen was the negotiated price of pleasure.
In a few days he was on the phone with the Star Maker. The day after that, Randy was sitting across the man’s desk in a sleazy office too far South of Market for Randy’s taste, a former warehouse filled with props, lights and sets too fake to suspend anyone’s disbelief. The man lit a cigarette and looked Randy over. “Well, let’s see it.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Hot fucking damn. It’s for real. Shit, boy.”
“It’s not all the way hard yet. Give me a second.”
“Take your time. Fuck, I don’t know anyone who could down that thing. I mean, I’m a big cocksucker and I don’t think I could manage that monster.”
“Maybe you could. Wanna give it a try?”
“Hell. Why not?”
The Star Maker put out his cigarette and, dropping his own jeans to the floor, caressed himself as he ministered to Randy. He admired the member for several seconds before taking a deep breath, opening his mouth wide and inhaling the bulbous head and the first few inches of the thick shaft.
“Fuck, yeah, that’s it, buddy. That’s it. Come on, you can suck a few more inches. Yeah. Man, oh, man, you’re good. Fuck, yeah, use both hands. Up and down, up and down. That’s it, that’s it. Keep sucking, buddy, keep sucking. You’re gonna make me cum, man, gonna make me shoot my load. Give me that head. Oh, yeah! Oh motherfucking goddamn! Here it comes, man, here it comes! I’m gonna blow, I’m gonna blow. Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
Randy smiled as he watched the Star Maker swallow three times and keep nursing on Randy’s shaft as he stroked himself to completion.
“That’s it, baby, that’s it. Shoot for me, baby, shoot it for me…”
After the Star Maker had caught his breath, wiped his mouth of any residue and recovered enough composure to talk business, the conversation continued, Randy’s flaccid trouser trout hanging limply, still wet with spit and cum, from his open jeans.
“How about this? Randy Johnson! Or maybe Miles Long? How about Butch Studley? Butch Boner? I know, Ben Boner! No, how about Tom Kat? Travis Bent? Or Dick Dickerson? Maybe Dick Shooter! Ben Bender, Dave Dawson, Mike Sergeant?”
“I liked Ben Boner.”
“Then Ben Boner it is. Now we gotta find a guy who can handle that much meat. Can’t be too hard to find a whore with his asshole stretched to hell. Any preferences?”
“None of that ugly street trash you see in those peep shows. Lots of hot guys in this town happy to take it up the ass for a few bucks.”
“They’re all trash, but don’t worry. I’ll find some cute clone to throw up his legs. You’re a hot top, so stay that way. I don’t care how versatile you really are, just remember: bottoms aren’t stars.”
Billed as a Castro Bartender, Ben Bohner—the h added for class, Randy shot a dozen super-eights that became legendary. He no longer swaggered up and down Polk Street, yet more opportunities presented themselves as he went about his daily business. His fee doubled in correlation with his celebrity. His fans frequently contacted the Star Maker, but he was reluctant to act as a liaison without receiving a commission that Randy refused to give him, the Star Maker having made enough money off of him. When the Star Maker was arrested on drug charges, Randy was happy that he had refused the services of a pimp.
He kept his job at the Neon Chicken, tending bar and enjoying the camaraderie it provided. To his regulars he was Randy. To those who sought him out with money in hand, he was Ben Bohner. Randy joked with his friends in the upstairs wine bar; Ben Bohner asked his patrons to meet him later at the Twin Peaks, Toad Hall or the Rawhide, where fees could be negotiated away from the prying eye of a boss that had no qualms about employing a whore as long as the whore was discreet enough not to transact business on the premises.
“Keep your cock out of the cash register! That’s what my dad taught me!”
“Sure, Mel, whatever you say.”
Life went on, his former exuberance tempered with experience. Coming from a small town, Randy found comfort being a neighborhood fixture. Strolls to Cliff’s Variety, Cala Foods or the Norse Cove were filled with nods and greetings. Only rarely did strangers accost him with undying love or unquenchable desire. The former was something for which he had no cure, the idea of romantic love between men an alien notion to him; the later meant money. At once collegial and chauvinistic, the locals defended Randy from unwanted attention, vocally deriding the tourists smitten with unfathomed desire as they watched Randy copulating to the silence of a projector’s rattle.
Just as Randy thought his celebrity was dissipating, he was visited at work by the Famous Porn Star responsible for Ben Bohner’s transition to sound. From Los Angeles (where Randy had never been), he was in San Francisco looking for talent. He was intent on working both sides of the camera, transitioning to where the real money lay. He came to the Neon Chicken just before closing, arriving in a flurry of narcissism and self-importance, too tanned for January and showing too many perfect teeth. Randy recognized him at once, his fame preceding him. A part of Randy blushed, another part was flattered to merit the Star’s attention.
“Someone told us you were here. Man, you’re hard to find. We’ve been in every bar on Castro looking for you. Anyway, I’m Drew. I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Hey, I like your voice. Sounds butch. We looked up this other guy you fucked once, that hair burner, Dan something, and he had a voice like Minnie Mouse. Couldn’t use him, but we didn’t tell him that, just said we’d be in touch. But you sound great, which means we can use you. We’re making a feature porn movie with sound. More money and more publicity. Whaddaya say?”
“Okay. When, where and who do I fuck?”
“Me. We’ll do two shoots on different days and splice them together, make it look like you shot two big loads.”
“Cool. But two fucks means I get paid for two scenes, right?”
“Yeah, well we can negotiate the details. The important thing is you’re on board, right? What’s your name, your real name I mean?”
“Randy. Let’s have a drink on it.”
The Famous Porn Star had been right. Randy’s transition to sound increased both his fame and his fortune. His fee was double the going rate, the price of his growing celebrity. He wondered if he were really the object of so many hushed conversations, whispered giggles and sideway glances that paused when he passed, or if he was being egotistical or paranoid, not sure which would be worse.
“There he is.”
“Omigod it’s real. Look at the fucking basket.”
“And he’s tall, too. Not like those other guys who just look hung ’cause they’re short.”
“Shit, how does he squeeze into those Levi’s? Those jeans need a third leg or something.”
“Nice ass, too. I wonder if he gets fucked?”
Randy loved to get fucked, loved the feeling of a big cock in his prone and waiting hole. He loved the intensity of another man sweating like a horse, reaching his climax and spewing sperm deep inside him. He loved the urgency that came with being fucked, loved the sense of contentment that followed the injection of semen into his bloodstream. But Bottoms Weren’t Stars, and Big-Dicked Bottoms were the bane of a community where chickens far outnumbered roosters. Any suggestion that he give up his ass for payment was met with the same speech:
“I don’t know, man, I’m not really into that. I dunno, maybe, but it’ll cost ya. And you can’t tell anyone you fucked me.”
No matter the size of the assaulting member, or the violence it asserted, the monologue remained the same:
“Fuck, that hurts! Damn, you got a big dick. You’re tearing me apart.”
Though sworn to secrecy, the men that had the pleasure of Randy’s ass were quick to share the details of their expensive conquest. Eventually word got around that, for a price, Randy’s backdoor was accessible, but the price increased each time he was fucked because:
“I don’t really like getting fucked, you know? It hurts too damn much. Especially with a hung stud like you.”
Movie followed movie. He posed naked for Mandate, Blueboy and Torso, dick arching to heaven or hanging half hard. He smiled his winning smile, his eyes sparkling, head bent slightly to one side. But despite his continued popularity, Randy sensed that moustached, shaggy-haired men would soon be out of style; he kept his job at the Neon Chicken.
Seeing one of his movies on a home video, Randy sensed a milestone had been passed, the old medium succumbing to the new, and just as not all of Hollywood’s silent film stars were able to make the transition to talkies, neither would many of the established porn stars move seamlessly to video—a far more brutal media than celluloid. It was then that the Porn Mogul appeared, the new proprietor of an old studio that had bought the rights to what were now known as Ben Bohner’s Classics. The success of Ben’s early work in the new medium meant renewed interest in Randy.
“I got this great idea, see? I’ll get me a stable of the really popular guys from the old super-eights and sign them to Exclusive Contracts!”
“Like Hollywood?”
“Sure, whatever. So you sign with me and I give you a little something just for signing. And it’s a contract so I have to use you for so many videos a year, see? So you get some guaranteed work and I get a roster of stars that’ll make the other guys weep!”
“Sounds like a great idea. Just so you know, though, my price has gone up. A lot.”
“Not a problem, Benny. I got investors ready to make some money!”
“When do we start work?”
“Soon. Just one thing, though.”
“Yeah.”
“I get to swing on your knob sometimes. Kinda of a perk of being the boss, see?”
“Sure, man. After you pay me.”
“Not to worry. We’re riding the wave and we’re riding high!”
Almost overnight, the world changed. Sex was no longer a commodity but something feared. Semen was now toxic and pleasure had consequences. Whispered rumors, shame-filled eyes, gallows humor and desperate laughter were the new norm. Spontaneity died and all pleasure was suspect. Once stars, the sluts that had proudly peopled the City became pariahs irrationally blamed for not having foreseen the plague.
A pall hung over the Castro, a heavy black veil blotting out the joy that had filled their lives. The streets, once full of foot traffic every night, were empty. One by one, businesses closed, either because they were unable to succeed with diminishing foot traffic, or because the entrepreneur had died intestate. One could only fuck within restraints that felt unbearable to the initiated but were quickly adopted by the succeeding generation.
Among the first wave of deaths was the Porn Mogul. His silent partner took over and made vast sums of money by anticipating both an increased consumption of porn and a shift in popular tastes. Moustached and bearded men with hairy chests disappeared from the skin magazines to be quickly replaced by skinny boys touted as “Healthy Men.” Then they were replaced by buffed but shaven men with boyish faces and pouting lips. Randy watched the need for porn increase even as his own ability to get work within the medium waned with every video he made. Men with maturity (which is to say men over thirty) and experience were no longer a part of the iconography, buried under the avalanche of shaven chests and genitalia. When the Neon Chicken closed its doors on Eighteenth, and with his options fewer than ever, Randy consented to be kept by a wealthy man living in a modern monstrosity in the Oakland Hills. Randy left the city that had nurtured him, feeling like an exile from the home he had loved, fearing that Oakland would be his Colonus.
“He left me how much?”
“Enough to live on comfortably. You must have made him very happy.”
“I sure as hell tried.”
“Funny. I always thought Wayne was a top.”
“He was. Mostly. And super hung. There weren’t a lot of guys who could handle that much meat.”
“But you could?”
“Hell, yeah!”
“But your image…I always thought you were a top, too.”
“Versatile, but don’t tell anyone. It‘d ruin my image.”
“You know, I always thought you’d look good in leather…”
“Yeah? As it happens, I do.”
Thus another career for Randy, Leather Master, one for which there was a ready and anxious market. In this, as in all his endeavors, he excelled because he liked the people he made happy with the abuse he provided, and because he loved his work. Which brings us to why he was in Chicago on this particular weekend, in this hotel lobby…looking for work.
The kiss was invasive and Randy liked it. Rock’s tongue assaulted his mouth with a will to dominate the Leather Master being held in his lip lock. He grabbed Randy’s ass, squeezing his buttocks tight in his strong hands. With a sudden and insistent moment of clarity, Randy managed to pull himself from the kiss.
“Hey, son, this is great, but you know why I’m here, right?”
“Dad’s a whore. I knew that already. I’m horny and got money in my pocket to spend on a man I’ve wanted since I first got pubes. Come on, Dad. I’m gonna fuck you good.”
Soon they were in Rock’s suite. Rock threw a few C-notes on the bed, sat on the couch, opened a beer, undid his jeans, grabbed a bottle of lube and nodded to Randy while stroking his own huge dick.
“Okay, Dad. Strip for me. And make it last.”
Randy had stripped before, both in bars and for clients. Having no innate sense of rhythm or gift of movement, he’d developed a technique that had served him well over the years, developed by hours of practice in front of a narrow mirror.
He spread his legs and slowly removed his motorcycle jacket, letting it fall with a soft thud to the floor. Then came his leather vest, removed with a single, simultaneous movement of both shoulders. With a final shrug, it too found the floor. Looking into Rock’s eyes, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it quickly off, letting it drop. He left the white, ribbed singlet stretched across his broad chest, before slowly turning around, bending over and, grabbing the flies from both legs of his chaps, slowly pulled up on the zippers until they fell open. Standing erect, he undid the snaps, finally letting the chaps share the floor with the rest of his gear. Facing Rock again, Randy slowly unbuttoned the leather under-chaps, letting them fall down his legs to his still booted feet. He kicked of the shorts and stood naked except for leather gloves, boots and cap.
“Shit, Dad. Turn around and show me the hole I’m gonna fuck. Oh, yeah. Sweet, hairy Daddy hole. I gotta eat that ass. Bend over, fucker.”
Randy turned around, slowly bending forward as he grabbed his booted ankles. Rock’s tongue assaulted his hole with the same insistence with which it had invaded his mouth, laying claim to it, preparing it for what was to come, enjoying the taste and scent of the orifice. With one movement, Rock stood and pushed Randy face-first onto the bed. In a moment, Randy was bound spread-eagle, testing the restraints to show off straining muscles. A few more bills fell onto the mattress.
“You okay with bareback, Daddy whore?”
“Yes, but you should know…”
“Shut up. All I wanted to hear was ‘yes.’ You know, I think I’ll call my posse so they can fuck you, too. Don’t worry, I got a wad of C-notes to pay for each of my bros… Hey, Joe? Yeah, he’s here. You and the boys come up and take turns with him when I’m done. Yeah, raw is cool. Head up now so you can see me shoot my first load, Yeah, it’s a sweet hairy Daddy ass. Worth every fucking penny. Hey, I’m done talkin’, ’kay? Get the boys up here… All right, now bite the pillow and take it like a man.”
Rock was on top of him, his rigid cock dripping honey and looking for the moist, warm harbor between Randy’s buttcheeks. Tentatively, it approached the waiting orifice, slowly but steadily pushing its way toward its goal. When the head had been engulfed in the warm, hairy flesh of Randy’s fuck hole, he gasped with pleasure at the same moment Randy gasped in pain. Rock pulled back only slightly before continuing to push inside Randy, who could only groan in response to the delicious anguish. After what seemed an eternity, Rock was fully embraced by Randy’s hole, a hole grabbing onto the huge cock, grasping for the bulbous head striking against the prostate and sending shivers up and down Randy’s hairy, bound body. Rock’s pace increased, slowly at first, in both strength and speed, pounding harder against the hard rock that was Randy’s prostate as it prepared to shoot sperm against the sheets beneath the sweating bodies thrashing together as they reached their climax. Joe and the others came in just as Rock screamed and made the last, hard thrust inside Randy, letting his seed spew deep inside Randy, marking Randy as his own. At the same moment, Randy came, his hard cock spurting spunk against his belly. Rock caught his breath a moment before roughly disengaging himself with a slap on Randy’s restrained, hairy ass. Rock shook the sweat from his face as he smiled at the posse of young men, all of them engorged and prepared to take Rock’s place.
“All yours, guys. And don’t worry, he’s paid for. Have fun.”
“Thanks, Rock.”
“Man, you’re the best, Rock.”
“Awesome!”
“I love a hairy ass.”
“I’m gonna breed Daddy good.”
Randy grunted and groaned as if it were all too much, thus bringing the excited young men to quicker climaxes, filling him with ball juice that leaked from his hole and down his scrotum, forming a small puddle on the bedding beneath him.
“Okay, guys. Remember to keep it in your pants so you got a load for tomorrow’s shoot.”
Rock could not resist a final fuck, pounding Randy’s juicy wet hole until he shot his spunk deep inside the bound bottom. Afterward, Rock rolled over, lit a cigar and set Randy free. They passed the cigar back and forth for a few minutes.
“Need to cum, Dad?”
“No, I came while you were fucking me the first time. What’s this about a shoot?”
“Yeah, see we’ve started a new company, all ’bout young studs fucking their Dads. And I want you to be our first star. We came here looking for talent and man we found it.”
Rock slapped Randy’s ass, which was a signal for Randy to collect the cash strewn around the bed.
“I get paid, right?”
“Yeah, you’re our fucking star, and you’re gonna sign an exclusive contract with us, Dad. But I need you to work the crowd here, see. You’re gonna wear one of our DADDY BITCH T-shirts and walk around the Leather Mart making friends and stirring up interest. Here, put on those shorts you had on beneath your chaps, and your boots and shit. Here, wear this T-shirt, extra tight, right? Yeah. All right, take this and do some shopping while you’re there. Buy yourself something pretty. And one more thing…”
Rock peeled a few more bills off his roll and handed them to Randy. When Randy was dressed, Rock locked a chain around his neck, kissed him and pushed him toward the door with another slap on the ass.
“You’re sleeping with me tonight. In fact, why don’t you just move your stuff in here later?”
Randy was in the hall counting the bills that had been thrown at him and collected with a degree of apparent chagrin that Rock had clearly relished. Smiling, he headed to the Leather Mart, beginning his final reinvention before retirement and inevitable disappearance—assured that he would be remembered as a Hot Stud for decades to follow.