The Clipboard

The notice hadn't been on the message board of the YMCA an hour ago, so I grabbed it before someone else saw it.

This is a pretty common come-on that people use. They all have the same story about how they're writing a book about prisons, Boy Scout camps, or boarding school dorms, and the characters get fucked or have to give blow jobs and they just can't imagine what it must be like. Yeah, right. These guys are usually sexless slobs who were never able to have normal relationships, and who now want to walk on the wild side but don't have the balls to go to the Street. They try to come off as being straight, but all of us on the Street know the score. These jobs pay good because the assholes don't know the going rate, and all I have to do for a quick hundred bucks is fuck them in the ass or let them suck my eighteen-year-old cock.

I called the cell phone number listed. The guy can tell by my voice that I am young, so he gives me directions to his boat and tells me to come at ten, and to not be early. I went back to the dump I share with four other guys and took a shower and touched up the shave job on my belly and legs. Customers expect pubic hair, But I always keep the rest shaved smooth because it makes me look much younger, and that means more money in this trade.

I got there early, so I chained my bike to a lamppost and waited. An old guy, maybe thirty-five or forty, but still in good shape, came out on the deck of this forty-foot boat and kissed this really hot babe goodbye. That kiss, and his hand on her ass told me that this was't your ordinary customer.

Ron sat across from me in the living room, or salon in boat talk, and handed me a manuscript that he had been working on. This guy really was a writer, and although I'm not a big reader I could tell that he was as good as Henry Melville or Mike Twain or thos other guy's that I had to learn in school. The book, Ron said, was about a confused man in his mid-life crisis, separated from his wife and confused about his sexuality, who decides to take a fling with a young man to try and sort things out. Ron told me that he had been blown by girlfriends, wives, and prostitutes, and had fucked every hole in their bodies, but had never been on the recieving end. The job was mine, if I was clean, and paid a thousand dollars for cruising around in the boat for a week and getting my rocks off.

Ron drove me to my place to get my shit, and then to a clinic for blood tests. The county gives them for free, but it takes longer to get the results back.

Ron,s neighbor was pulling his boat into the slip when we got back to the dock.

"Hey Ron," he called, "you get a new deckhand?"

"No, just my nephew from Idaho. We're going to spend a week in the islands."

I gave 'Uncle Ron' and his neighbor some teenage shuck and jive bullshit about how totally awesomely cool the boats were, and caught the neighbor's eye.

Street kids have four types of customers: I like women, as I'm straight and they pay better than men do. I don't have a very impressive build, and I'm not hung that well, so the ones I attract are the librarians and school teachers that finally get tired of just looking at teenage studs so they to try pick one up. The men are type one, two, or three. Type ones, like Ron, are preferred. They want my jizz, and I don't have to take theirs. Type twos are touchy-feely lovey-dovey guys who want romance. They expect me to return their affection, and I don't like that shit. I might blow a guy if the price is right, but I never take it in the ass. Ron's neighbor was a type three. They want to fuck anything that is warm, male or female, and make it hurt. They also like to beat the shit out of you afterwards, so I stay away from them. This guy was getting a boner just looking at me and thinking about being on a boat with me for a week.

We left the dock about noon, and got to know each other a little as Ron piloted us across Puget Sound to where we would anchor for the first night. Ron was a forty-year-old dot-com high roller who had sold out just in time. His ex-wife got the house, and he got the boat and the twenty-year-old girlfriend. My mother had changed minimum wage jobs and low rent men every year. Five years ago, when I was thirteen and she was in rehab again, her boyfriend came home all fucked up on something and got into my bed with me. I cut him up pretty bad and spent the next couple of years bouncing in and out of foster homes, until I quit school and started in on the Street.

Later that evening Ron asked me to strip. There wasn't going to be any action until my tests came back, but he wanted to check out the merchandise. He looked at me from every angle and finally put on a latex glove, felt my balls, and started stroking my cock. I expected to see a bulge in his pants as he looked at my naked, five and a half foot tall one hundred and thirty pound body with it's six inch cock jutting out, but he didn't seem turned on at all. Instead he picked up a clipboard and took notes.

We spent the next two days just screwing around. We would cruise for a couple of hours, and then tie the boat up in a deserted cove. Ron would usually work on his book, and I would lie around watching TV or play with his other computer or surf the web. I don't have a computer at home, and the ones at the YMCA and library have blocks installed to keep the kids away from the good shit. In the afternoons, when it was warm, I would lie on the deck and work on my tan. We fished some, and went diving. The water could freeze your nuts off, but Ron had wet suits, so it wasn't too bad.

The lab called the morning of the fourth day and gave me a clean bill of health, so it was time for me to go to work. I have heard guys say that there is no such thing as a bad blow job, just good ones and better ones. Ron's wasn't very good. Women and straight men only give blow jobs for two reasons: Either their getting paid for it, or they feel that they have to, such as to please their lovers or to keep from getting their balls hacked off by some sister in prison. The only people who can give really good blow jobs are flaming homos. They like to do it, they know how to please, and they put their hearts into the job. Ron had me stand in front of him for the first one, and then took my soft cock in his mouth and started sucking. You never do that unless you want a throat full of piss, as most men don't have very good control in that condition. The proper way is to fluff the guy up by licking or stroking him to hardness first. I have a tough time getting it up for a guy myself, unless I imagine that it is a woman rooting around down there instead of a guy tickling your nuts with his beard. Ron seemed completly supprised when my four day load was deposited in his mouth, and I thought he would spit it out. He swallowed it, then washed his mouth out and brushed his teeth. I didn't say anything, and he just made notes on his clipboard and went to his computer to record it all. We did that four times that day, with me in a different posion each time. He deep-throated me once, but spit the rest of my loads out.

We didn't do anything the next day, but the day after that I fucked him in the ass twice. I've never taken it in my ass, but some people learn to like it. My slender cock is ideal for a first-timer like Ron. A lot of the guys on the Street are hung like horses, and would have torn him up some. Lubrication and patience are the two most important things for giving a good buttfuck. I mix my own lube, and the ingredients are secret. I stroke myself to get hard, roll on a non-textured rubber, and then lube up. Shoving it in fast will always produce a scream, so unless the guy wants it to hurt I just apply steady pressure until it slips in. Once inside, I can hump as hard as I want to without hurting him. Ron took it once on his hands and knees, and once on his back with his legs up over his shoulders. He got hard in that position, but didn't stroke himself or shoot his load like a lot of guys do.

That afternoon Ron said that we were done and that we would be going back to Seattle the next day. He was working on the book, and I was messing with the other computer when I accidentally opened a file that contained an outline for the story that he was writing. He had prepared a list of questions for himself and had obviously forgotten to delete it after printing it out. There were spaces for him to note the taste and texture of my cock, the slickness of my jizz on his gold tooth, the feel of my balls against his ass, and just about every thing else about the experience. I scrolled through the list, wondering about what he has written on the clipboard, and came to the last page and just about shit my pants. Ron went to bed early that night, claiming that he was drowsy.

The sun was up and it was warm when I woke Ron the next morning. He was pretty groggy and slow to come around, and it took him a bit to figure out that he was tied spread-eagle on the deck. He started to mumble something about me being a "lil bassard'.

"That's right," I answered, "I am. I also switched drinks with you last night, so now it's you tied there and not me. Let's see what's next on the list, you twisted cocksucker." I said, reading his clipboard.

"I'll give you money!" Ron pleaded, knowing the contents of the outline.

"I already have it. You told me the combination to the safe last night when the drug hit you." I replied, pointing to by bulging backpack.

He started getting pretty noisy then, so I put a gag on him and started to read aloud from the clipboard.

Does the subject know what is going to happen to him? Yes

Is the suject resisting? Yes

Are the subject's balls getting cold? Yes. I had applied the tourniquet from the first aid kit just before he woke up.

Does subject have an erection? No

Did subject ejaculate? No, and he never will again, either.

How tough is the scrotal sac? To find out I picked up the knife and pressed down. Very tough, or the knife is dull.

Is there much blood? Very little.

What color are the nuts? Sort of gray

What do they taste like? I cut one up and forced a piece of it into his mouth. He can fill that blank in himself, later.

I cut his other nut in half, and threw it and his empty scrotum to the seagulls that always follow boats, then I cut him loose and rowed to shore in the dinghy.

The safe contained over two hundred thousand dollars,which I took, and four large packages of heroin which I left for him. I moved here, to Florida, and invested the money in the stock market. A note in the safe said that some company called Enron was a good buy. I should be set for life.

Ron's book hasn't yet been published.