Richard Sharon - Diary of a Lover

I thought I was in for a real erotic experience, but as it turned out, it was pure comedy. It was an Elks group that night, and they all were bombed out of their skulls by the time the girls went on. The girls danced around awhile and sang a few dirty songs with voices that sounded like a congress of alley cats. Then, satisfied that no police were present, they took off the pasties and G-strings, which brought a roar of approval from the Elks.

Spreading their legs, they bent over at the waist and let their tits bounce around a bit for the boys in front. But we were the boys in back, so all we saw was a comical picture of brownish assholes and hairy, backward twats, surrounded by four big, pimplish asses. As we looked at one another it was all we could do to keep from breaking up. Herb had to stop playing for a minute because he couldn't purse his lips on his trumpet mouthpiece. Then the girls went out into the audience and, stopping at each chair on the aisles, spread their legs and held open their cunt lips while the Elks shoved paper money up them. One big blonde with tits that dropped almost to her navel was getting the lion's share. I couldn't believe how much cash that broad had stuffed up her pussy.

From then on, it really started getting raw. The guys in the first row began pulling out their pricks and wrapping money around them. The smell of cash lured the girls back to the front, and they started sucking the guys off. From where I was sitting, all I could see was their crummy assholes and the backs of their heads bobbing up and down. It reminded me of a bunch of suckling calves. The guys made jokes when they came. One said, "Stand back, men! I'm gonna blow her head clear up to the roof!"

The horny ones in the back rows who couldn't get any attention came up to the front. A few of them took out their cocks and started jacking off near the girls' faces, while the girls were blowing the other guys. The Elks in the front row who hadn't been satisfied just sat with their – prongs out, waiting their turn. The girls began straddling the chairs and squatting down onto the men, laughing and joking as they applied just the right amount of pressure and the right movements to their asses to get the guys' nuts off in about ten seconds. These whores knew their business, and they weren't wasting any time as long as there was still a fiver being waved by somebody.

All the while, we kept up this nauseating stripper-type noise that we all hated so much. Orders were orders, and we expected a good tip. Besides, they all were so drunk that they didn't know what we were doing, so we had some fun playing imitations o! Guy Lombardo and that phony, trembling vibrato that he made famous.

Somebody dragged out one of those folding tables that public halls always seem to have in abundance. One girl lay on each end of the table, stuck her knees up, and started to take the tricks that hadn't been serviced yet. Any man who is insecure about his sexual staying power would be reassured if he went to one of these smokers. I must have watched fifty or sixty guys fuck those girls, and not one of them lasted over thirty seconds. Most barely made it to fifteen seconds. The girls got about as excited as nuns at an Easter service, cracking jokes and gabbing as they were being fucked.

This was the first time I had ever seen a bunch of men screwing. It gave me an inkling of a fact that would be proved again and again in the future: most male organs are nothing to be terribly proud of, and most men, even the young ones, are really and truly shitty lovers.

I could just see all of these cats going home to their wives.

"Did you have a nice time at the Elks' party, dear?"

"Oh, yes, fine. It was a real nice evening. We played cards and told dirty jokes, and I'm awful tired, so I think I'll go right to sleep, dear."

After the stag I collected my bonus of ten dollars, loaded my drums into Herb's car, changed to my hustling clothes, and walked over to the Tenderloin. Bobby was back in place, leaning against the Owl Drugstore. He was very happy to see me and quite interested in my account of the Elks' stag party. I told him that I had decided to try hustling, but had missed him Friday and Saturday nights, and of the miserable luck I had in picking up Johns.

Bobby laughed hard, and told me that weekends were tourist and family nights on Market Street, and that he worked the Powell and Geary areas on those nights. Well, after all, I thought, this hustling stuff was new to me, but I figured I'd catch on. Bobby confided that he was glad to have a "straight" stud-hustler like himself around, and that was why he tried so hard to recruit me. Most of the other studs were queer, and hated the straights. He thought we would be able to take care of each other, and look after each other's interests. It was always better, he said, if you worked with somebody you could trust, and he wouldn't trust a fuckin' queer as far as he could throw him.

By now it was very late. Market Street had darkened its many theater marquees and we stood in the only spot of light on the block, made by the all-night drugstore, the Pics Theater, and the hot-dog stand. Bobby had already done three Johns and was ready to go home when I arrived. He said it was hard to get a trick at this hour of the morning, and you had to hope for the compulsives, groping for one more cock to suck before they went home.

He stayed just inside the doorway of the drugstore and I leaned casually against the front of the building, putting my hand into my pocket and pushing my cock around so that it would make the biggest bulge possible against my pants. There were a lot of guys walking by, but none seemed to give me more than a casual glance.

Finally, after about twenty minutes, I got my first real strike. A guy of twenty-five or so wearing a lumberman's jacket walked by. There was something about him, a certain look. He caught my eye, slowed a little, and stopped at the corner. Following the scenario exactly, he began to look aimlessly up and down the street. Bobby nodded at me through the window and smiled. I wandered over close to the John, 'looking preoccupied, and playing with my pecker through my pockets.

"Cold out tonight, isn't it?" he said. It was a statement rather than a question.

"Sure is," I said, buttoning up my Levi jacket.

"Sure is," he repeated.

There was a moment's silence between us.

"Kinda young to be out so late, aren't you?"

I shrugged. "Got no place to go. Tryin' to raise twenty bucks to catch a bus back home to Cheyenne."

"You broke?" He smiled.

"Sure am. Broke and cold." I affected a shiver.

He looked down between my legs, running his tongue slowly over his lips, which Bobby had told me was the way a queer lets you know he wants to suck it.

"Nice-lookin' package you got down there," he said, keeping his glance between my legs.

"Some people think so," I said.

"Ever had it blown?"

"Yeah, a few times."

He raised his eyes to mine. "Could I?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure, I guess so. Only I really need twenty to get home on."

"You a hustler?" he asked, his voice taking on an edge.

"A what?" I said, pretending I didn't know what the word meant.

"Never mind." he said, shifting nervously.

Another silence.

Finally he pulled out his wallet and thumbed through some bills. "Twenty, you say, to get you home?"

"Yeah, twenty."

He gave me two tens. "Where can we go?"

I looked around as though I didn't know where I was going to take him. The Pics was showing a couple of ancient Westerns. "How about in there? Ought to be almost deserted now."

He bought two tickets from a grizzled old counter girl who looked at me knowingly and smiled as we entered. It was very dark inside, but after my eyes got accustomed I could make out a few winos snoring softly, scattered around the theater.