[Breeder] Earl's Parties

[TheBreeder]

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(This entry is a companion of sorts to The Bank Book.)

Every few months, Earl and Jim would invite twenty or so guys to their home for a good old-fashioned orgy. Earl’s parties usually took place on Saturdays in the late afternoons; they’d last until darkness had fallen, and often until the morning beyond. Usually I’d start preparing for the event a few days in advance by telling my parents that one of my friends had invited me over to his place for dinner and an overnighter of Dungeons and Dragons and the midnight scary movie. By the time Saturday rolled around, they’d made plans for a night to themselves and would happily wave me off on my bike, knapsack on my back.

Ah, D&D. The best game I never played in my teens. There was a dungeon. Just no dragons, no nerds, and no twenty-sided dice.

At Earl’s house I’d lock my bike in his back yard, then allow him to welcome me and escort me to up to his bedroom. That was my domain, during the parties. Mostly after the men started arriving for the action, the more reluctant ones would sit around the sectional in the living room stroking themselves while watching others go at it. For the more experienced party-goers there was action around the sling in the basement, or fucking on the furniture. Men sometimes did piss play in the bathrooms, particularly in the downstairs bath with the old claw-footed tube. At night, in good weather, the action could move onto the screened back porch.

When Jim wasn’t too busy smoking pot and bending over for any man who’d have him, he’d be in the kitchen making sandwiches and shoving trays of pre-made hot appetizers into the oven. There was booze and beer in the fridge. There were drugs on the living room coffee table.

And there were a couple of boys. I knew that the kid to whom Jim would occasionally refer as ‘the other one’ usually arrived later in the evening for the parties, and got installed for the evening in the tiny closet known as Jim’s bedroom. That shithole was Baltic Avenue to my Boardwalk. I worked the master bedroom with its king-sized bed and heavy draperies, its private bathroom and own stereo system (complete with an 8-track player) and color television. An old glass mayonnaise jar sat on the bureau by the door, into which guests would stuff tens and twenties for me as they entered or left.

Earl made clear during parties that his bedroom was a substance-free zone. No pot, no poppers, no booze, no coke, no nothing. I didn’t indulge in them at all, and Earl made sure no one else would either, in my presence.

I would do anything else, though. That’s why I was there. For a long string of hours men would come into the room—usually singly, sometimes in pairs or small groups—drop their bills into the jar, and then grope to find me in the near-darkness, waiting, willing. I just did at the parties what I’d be doing with other men what I’d be doing at the park or in public restrooms anyway. Except I was doing those deeds in Earl’s bed, my head on the pillow where he slept, my naked body sliding between and over the same sheets that covered his at night. I would spend hours in an erotic, dozy haze, holes stretched wide, body covered and dripping with fluids. From time to time, Earl would enter the bedroom, shoo out any guys there, and make sure I ate something, or drink from my bottle of water.

And then, late in the evening when all the men downstairs had either visited or were beginning to go home or collapse into sleepy heaps, Earl would come into his room, lock the door, and stay there for good. He always had one load saved for me, at least; he took great pleasure at being the last one inside me, of planting the last load of seed in my hole that night. The other men varied in their approaches to fucking. Some were rough—some were timid and frightened I’d scamper away. Earl knew how I liked to be used, though. He’d take his pleasure without hesitation, without a second thought. If he came quickly on those nights, it was I think because he knew exactly how many dicks I’d had inside me that day, and loved thinking about me servicing all those strange men.

Then, when it was over, he’d turn gentle. He’d help me up on my wobbling legs and hold me until I was confident I could walk, then lead me into the bathroom. Like a mother with a baby, he’d run the tub water until it was warm but not too hot, and stand me in it. With a washcloth and soap, he’d rub away the scents the men had left on my body. He’d splash water against my raw ass and clean out the semen lingering there. He’d wash my hair and towel dry it with the rest of me, and then pour out a paper cup of Listerine so I could rise my mouth. Once he was sure I was steady and on my feet again, he’d lead me back to the bed and lay me down. I’d fall asleep in his arms. Although he wouldn’t spend the entire night with me, I liked knowing he was there when I fell asleep.

In the early morning I’d bike home on legs that felt like rubber, my mind practicing the lies I’d tell if my parents asked how my dungeoneering happened to go.

The next time I’d visit Earl's house, he’d give me an envelope fat with half the money. It wasn’t until after the second party that he asked me what I’d done with it. “You’re not spending it all, are you?” he asked. I told him that no, my parents would notice if I was spending a lot of cash, and that I’d put the envelopes into a drawer in my bedroom. He looked at me without speaking for a long moment, until finally he said, “And what happens if your mom or dad pulls open that drawer and finds it?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. He and I both knew there would be a lot of questions if such a thing happened—questions that couldn’t be easily evaded with even the most clever lies. I didn’t have a job. I mowed lawns and babysat, but not enough to earn that amount of money.

Earl didn’t have to argue much to convince me I was endangering our friendship by letting the cash sit around my parents’ house. “That other kid is going to smoke his way through his cash,” he said. “But you’re not like him. You’re a smart young man. You should be smart with the money. Right?” When I nodded, not really certain what he expected of me, he asked, “It could really help you out in the future if you kept the money somewhere that could earn you interest. How about we go to a bank and I’ll help you open a savings account?”

We picked a branch where my parents didn’t have any business. After that first visit together, when I received my passbook for the new account, we had a deal. When I’d work a party, I’d immediately take the money Earl gave me to Southern Bank, keeping at most only ten dollars to supplement my allowance. Earl kept my passbook in a drawer in his own bedroom; though he never made a show of checking up on my accumulating deposits, I suspect he was pleased I at how diligently I set aside my ill-gotten gains for the future.

It was at the back of Earl’s drawer that the book remained, tucked away through the many month I enjoyed his company. It even remained there for a long while after the panicked time later, when I had to part company with him for good.

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