Pimping for fun and profit ~ another bugshare story

[LuciferSubFagPig]

Don't recall reading this one here:

Pimping for Fun and Profit

One night I decided to check out this Tearoom. It's relatively safe and you get a good mix there from hot Teenyboppers to sleazy Old Trolls—a hodgepodge that guarantees just about anything can happen and usually does.

At first I thought no one was there till I spied pair of hairy legs. I sat down in the adjoining stall and glanced through the peephole. Pressed jeans and Jockeys lay crumbled on the tile floor around a pair of well developed calves. A minute later a youthful hand beckoned beneath the wall. I had no idea what the Faggot had in mind, but was inclined to let the Dude do what he would--till the Guard walked in.

“Closing time!”

I exited the stall as he switched off the light. It was dark as hell. You can imagine my surprise when an arm went round my waist and a hand groped my crotch. I jumped. The guy in the can? Just as I decided to let him play, the Watchman reappeared .

“Out now!”

Outside I found myself alone so I trudged off to the Bus Stop. This Teenybopper came in and sat down beside me. The Fucker from the Stall? The Dude was drunk as hell.

"Hi."

"Hi" back.

He smiled in that stupid boyish way. “Guess how old I am.”

“Sixteen.”

"Nah, you're wrong! Everyone thinks that since I cut my hair. I get soooooo mad when guys think I'm that young. I'm 18."

"Uh huh."

"Whatcha doing?".

“Waitin’ for a bus.”

"Me, too. I’m drunk."

"I gathered."

The Kid leaned in closer. I was about to leave and wait somewhere else when he announced he’d do anything for money. His candor took me by surprise. He hankered to become the Kept Boy of some Sugar Daddy—who‘d pamper him and keep him in the latest shit. I couldn’t help but laugh.

"What's funny?"

"You're barkin' up the wrong tree, Sonny. Why do you think I’m waitin’ here instead of driving myself home?"

" I still like you. Can we go somewhere?"

"There’s a park a half mile down."

As we strolled along (I strolled; he stumbled, more or less) I got a better look at him. Hot in that street-like grunged-up way—tousled dark hair, brown eyes, smooth skin, 5'8" and slim. The thing I noticed most about him was that he was soused—absolutely reeked of alcohol. He rambled on about his life. He lived with an alcoholic Uncle who’d introduced him to Gay Sex. They’d had a torrid love affair till Uncky took to pimping him.

I wasn't sure how much was true and how much, crap; but I listened all the same. I was only a few years older than he, but I guess he saw me as the Big Brother type. He jabbered on about how he'd love to be a Rich Man's Whore and how he'd do anything for pay. I assured him that there were a lot of needy guys out there who'd gladly pay for play.

He asked me what kind of things he’d have to do?

"Pretty much the usual--suck Cock and spread your Cheeks." That turned him on. I pictured him all boozed up at the Baths. Man! He'd be dripping POZ CUM in no time. The older Dudes would juice his Innards big-time with their Slimy Loads. The Kid wouldn't even know what hit him. Still, the Baths were out of the question as I had only a few dollars in my pocket; but the Kid had possibilities.

“I know a place where we can go if you want to get it off.” I told him to be forewarned—of guys who practiced "Unsafe Sex." That didn’t faze him, but he beamed so much I thought, “Why not?" He wants it. It's not my fault that he's gotten soused.” I felt a fleeting pang of guilt.

“You sure you wanna do this?”

He reaffirmed his eagerness, but freaked out at something in the bushes.

"Try not to be so obvious ‘bout bein’ drunk and all. This park is rife with scum. You never know what kind of Slime you’ll cum across--besides the Slime you want to meat. Just hang with me and you’ll be OK.”

We made our way to the Men's Room. The lights were out and there was a young guy sucking an older Dude at the urinal. The Sucker looked serene as he worked his lips over the Senior's Dick. I recognized the Suckee as a compatriot of mine—his first outing since a bout with PCP PNEUMONIA. He'd bragged about the Punks he’d POZZED. The Kid looked mesmerized. AIDS DAD beckoned for my Boy to join the fun, but the Kid turned and ran. I followed.

"What's wrong?"

“I'm tired of suckin'. I wanna fuck.”

We walked into the female john and watched two Trolls humpin'. A bunch of dudes lurked in the shadows. I recognized another POZ Bud and some bareback regulars.

“More to your liking?”

"S’okay," he muttered noncommittally. The guys were ogling him and closing in for the kill.

I just stood back and let Nature take its course. The POZ Dude came up behind him, reached around, unzipped his jeans and pulled down his trou. Another shoved Poppers beneath his nose, exhorting him to inhale 'deep and often.' A third knelt to suck his Cock while the POZ Dude (who was old enough to be his fabled Sugar Dad) spat on his fingers and shoved them up his Virgin Ass.

I went outside to wait as epithets of Gay concupiscence wafted through the stale night air. AIDS DAD rounded the building fast as his skinny limbs would carry him. He undoubtedly would want a piece of the Boy, too; and he was welcome to him.

It was close to 2 AM when the Kid finally stumbled out, and it wasn’t just Booze inhibiting his mobility. He walked kinda funny like he had a Stick up his Ass. I wondered how much Cock the Boy had taken, but decided it was too impolitic to ask. He sat down on the grass complaining how badly his Butt hurt. I nodded sympathetically. He wiped his mouth which gleamed of Spooge. His forehead, cheeks, and chin glimmered ghostly white with Gay POZ Creme. I knew he’d taken Mega Doses and prayed the Bug was careening his hormone-ravaged veins.

I helped him up and we headed back to the main thoroughfare—a taxing hike for one who’d been so wantonly abused. Through conversation I tried to distract him from his ills, but his mind was too far gone. I felt a smidgen of guilt until I rationalized that, young as he was, he'd be fit as a fiddle in a day or two and would learn to live with HIV. And with his predilection for rough trade, he’d end up a proliferant Gift Giver. I spotted a cab, and that's how I left him—gingerly parking his torn Butt on the clammy vinyl seat. It was a nice night, and I decided to walk home. Did I ever see him again? Read my new book entitled, ”Pimping for Fun and Profit."