Norman Singer: The Hungry Husband

Shakily, David dialed the number, his blood pounding in his veins… (oh be still my heart!)… A husky male voice answered. "I saw your ad in the Gazette," David began.

"Yes, Sir, what's your pleasure?"

David began to perspire, and he knew he was stammering and felt ridiculous. "Are you… uh… busy this Saturday afternoon?"

"No. I could handle you at two on Saturday."

… Handle me!.. thought David, summoning up the tremulous pictures, the rough wet grabs. The boy gave him his address. David gave him a name. "How much do you charge?"

"Twenty an hour."

"You're not affiliated, are you?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, are you free-lance, or does someone manage you?"

A low, rueful laugh. "Nobody manages me, baby. I fly alone…"

… Baby he calls me!.. thought David… oooh!.. basso profundo calling me baby…!

"You're everything you advertise, aren't you?"

"Like what?"

"It says here that you're… well-endowed, which also means that you can produce when called up, if you follow me…"

"Eight and a half inches, baby, and I produce every time somebody touches me."

David let out a deep sigh, then waited until his breath came regularly. "Great. You sound like just what I've had in mind for weeks. I'll see you on Saturday. And if you… uh… show promise,"… clumsy attempt at humor here… "I'll take from you on a steady basis…"

"Aw man, that'd be cool, baby. I'll see ya Saturday!"

David's wheel of fortune was at last rolling in the right astral direction. New homes away from home opened wide their doors to him…

Brad Grogan put in a similar phone-call that week, a clutch of desperation. Down on his luck and needing money, he now found a readymade dream in his future. Quite by accident.

One night, when he was feeling particularly lonely and desolate, he resorted to his half-forgotten computer-list for the first time in months. There was only one untried name left on the sheet, and what fond memories he had of the others, having sapped each of them dry in his own inimitable style.

He dialed the number. A woman answered, and her voice was so beautiful and cultured, he could listen to her talk for hours. Oooh, I hooked a lady-type this time, he thought, and they're the ones who really crawl for it… So here goes another notch in my nuts… one more pussy-slave to squat, swallow, spit-up and forget…

"Could we possibly meet and have coffee?" he asked, in his lowest, sexiest tones.

"I think it could be arranged," said the girl. "Although I have a particular fondness for Irish coffee. What's your name, by the way?"

He told her, and noticed now that the girl had a slight lisp.

"And I'm Valerie Hudson," she said. "Why don't we meet at the Buena Casa? I know it's always terribly packed in that place, but I like to see how a man stands out in a crowd."

… Va va voom!.. oh, I'll stand out for you, all right…!

"Great," he said. "But… how will I know you?"

"I'm five-one, with silver blonde hair and very long fingers. Now, what do you look like, Brad?"

"I'm six-four, 185 pounds, and very long… uh… lashes!"

"Well now!" said Valerie, already charting out his price-tags and performance-schedules. "You sound real promising. Big husky guys like you make me feel so lost and defenseless…"

"Hold that thought!" he laughed. "I'll see you at one!"

When they met the crowd threw them together, and they stood very close, Valerie reaching out to give him her usual thumb-sampling sea! of approval… "Ooh my goodness, Brad!" she lisped. "Have you ever been a I model?"

"Hell yes!" he lied. "Can't you tell by the way I pose?"

Two days later Brad was punching in at Valerie's place, daily. New job, new ass, new tomorrow…

As for Mr. and Mrs. David Fortune of Hillsborough, the cool machinery of their lives never ceased to function. The habit-structure of marriage stayed the same for them, and they never quarreled and still were buddies. Now that they'd been properly mated they had a solid future together. Sexual security. The dearest. Ask any anthropologist.