silver screen shower scene

last days of Sydney - final job (better than a 10" dick)

i lay on the cool tiled floor of the laundry, the whirring white noise of the clothes dryer soothing me in to a most relaxed state as if Enya herself mainveined a mouthful of mogadons and lay moaning a chorus of madrigals into my ear. i had vague thoughts about the job i had in a few hours. it was to be my final job before flying to europe. a 3-way with a client and a touring hooker built like a Applecrumble&Fitch model and his 10" dick. the calm was broken when the client sent one more text - the address of the hotel room where we would meet and a small note "you will get an extra tip if you open your ass for both of us"

you what now?

you want me to bottom? for BOTH of you!?! that about 18" inches of cock all up…  all up in my ass! oh, hell no! hell no! 

now don't get me wrong, i love have my fudge packed as much as the next homo and i will tear your goddamned head off if you don't do it right. but i have to WANT it. 

at work, when it's a mechanical performance, i rarely want it. even when the guy is hot as fuck - his pix are all over tumblr so i know he's hot, you know, if you like that tall muscled hairy chested tattooed chiseled features look. it's going to take me a good hour to ease ass-first down on that traffic cone of a cock.

i am the first to admit that i am a terrible bottom.

i know the client gets off on watching my face contort in agony, probably a little more than i get off on knowing he gets off watching my face contort in agony. if that's true, then he will get quite the show tonight

i bolt up off the floor. i panic a little. then i have a beer. then i suck as much of the dregs i can find lurking in the crack pipe  - if anything will loosen me up, that will. then jump on my bike and make my way over. 

i get there early and wait. parked in the same spot of Springfield Avenue where years earlier, as a removalist, i had moved the neighbour of Johnnie Cass from the first season of Big Brother Australia. he was openly gay and demonised as a two-faced villain though he was guilty of nothing more than being a typically insipid personal trainer-cum-lifecoach Eastern Suburbs homosexual. Johnnie seemed to take a shine to the Irish backpacker and I in our skimpy king gee shorts and worn wifebeaters.



everywhere we went he was there, reconstituting out of every shadow, watching us strain and lift and squat chunky heavy wooden furniture all the while proclaiming loudly into his mobile "tell Janice i will be happy to accept that tv presenters role," convincing no one that he was actually on a real phone call. 

are you not receiving as much as you would like? take it from an expert and take it like an expert. no one can show you how to receive quite like a sydney 'mo can

a few moments later the client arrived. we talked a bit and head towards the apartment of the 10" dick when a message came through from his boyfriend saying the 10" was sick and unable to make the appointment. 

for the first time in hours my arsehole relaxed. 

sure i didn't get to fuck the hot guy, but i did earn my hourly rate. plus the other guy's hourly rate as my tip. plus the intended tip as an additional tip.

i received. i received it all

got milk?

o' the laughter of children

Talk Sex - Sue Johanson - rough anal sex

last days of Sydney - rubberman

"i want recreate those shots. i like the dark element of what you did. the idea of threat. having you as a silent danger. not into the domination stuff such as the idea of getting away from the completely normal. the factory stuff reminded me of the Saw / Hostel films which always seem to have a home erotic side to them. 

i sound like a very disturbed individual" 

it was my last day. 

if i was still a child, my last day would be spent in a school classroom. student numbers slowly dwindling down until all that remained was the kids too poor to go away early on summer vacation. aside from their silent smiling pity, the only compensation our teachers could offer was forcibly gathering the left-over children of the underclass into one common room and letting us make cheap lame hand-made christmas decorations to take home to place on our even lamer hand-made christmas trees. that home usually being a house, or for me, for a few years, a trailer

who's that kid at the back of the room

baking under the hot sun in early days of summer we were crammed into little sweatshops. disappointed and angry. even in our tender years we were bitter about what had become of us. yet out of this dire misery, with our fingertips gleefully stained from mixing clag glue and colourful crepe-paper, we crafted symbols of joy and celebration. our denial was a bright and happy occaision

setting those papers on fire...

however, now i am a grown-up in grown-up land, i finally see it inexcusably ludicrous for Australian children to be colouring-in and decorating their homes with Santa Clause, Raindeer and Snowmen in the bright and sunny blistering heights of summer. also in grown-up land, our last days of semester are replaced with our last days in the office. my office is somewhat different. i can walk out of it anytime i want. but somewhere between my solid work ethic and greed makes me overbook myself right to the very end

we never see him with the girls….

this guy wanted an American Horror Story style rubberman rape and manhandling in an abandoned building. the Dunlop Factory was the ideal location but in the middle of the day i was bound to run into security, or worse, friends cruising for cock. 

*****

"hey, fancy seeing you here!" i would hear a voice come from somewhere within this abandoned building, and turn to see an old chum

"G'day!" my voice slighty muffled so i enforce it with a polite wave. a black plastic wrapped hand in the air.

"so whatcha doin'?"

"oh you know," as i point to the naked slave being mouthraped at my feet, "just another day the office."

my friend looks down, "oh yeah, of course. working hard or hardly working, right?" he laughs

"oh, you *giggle*" i shoo him off away. my giggling could barely be heard over the crinkling of plastic as i thrust my cock deep into his gagging throat. "see down the pub for a beer later?"

"wouldn't dream of doing anything else, mate."

that scenario is one to avoid.

******

the other unappealling scene is riding the next few blocks on a motorbike dressed in tight black plastic at 11am. 

i entertained the idea for a while until i tried to wrap myself in plastic. it's not possible to do it yourself

i had to relocate. my old employer. my dear old filthy dark sex club. it was a far better and far sexier idea than leaving the front door of a half-boxed apartment open with a rubber man standing at the far end of it. the client also welcomed a changed of location. 

i turned up to the front cage with nothing but roll of black plastic wrap and a handful of dreams. "Fluffy, i need your help." Fluffy, being the man he is, was more than happy to help. every homo loves to play dress ups and body wrapping incorporates our natural skills of craft and design. much those poor children denied an education and forced to glue strips of paper tinsel in the steaming heat summer, Fluffy could not have asked for a better interruption of his day. christmas came early this year. in boots and a jockstrap with leg cocked up high on the counter and my former employer dancing around my hairy drumsticks like an excited demon child at a satanic maypole, it was the best greeting for customers wondering into a sex club at 11am that morning. they smiled politely and moved on inside making the most of the $5 lunchtime special

we never talk to him

he never looks quite right

all plans and efforts were ruined when the client turned up early. i stressed many times to wait until 11:30am. does an erect penis listen? no. i was up to my tits in wrap when he introduced himself. the illusion of a threatening rubber man was shattered as i tried to ignore him, then regretfully waved back. if only he waited 5 more minutes when my head was wrapped and i stomped into the dark backroom.

it was kind of weird, kind of fun and kind of disappointing to have all that hard work torn to shreds in minutes. but stalking patrons in a maze was damn good fun. even though some knew who i was, they steered clear. they feared the rubber man! as for the client, he loved tearing me open like a christmas present. it was a break from his regular day, his planned career, his growing old and maybe, just maybe, his wife and kids

5c blowjobs

undercut again

last days of Sydney - disorder disorder disorder

texts were flying in from all kinds of people trying to book an appointment. i didn't know the difference between the timid american who wanted my cum all over his face and the straight guy who was picking up the motorbike. i did know one of them was going to turn up at 2pm and it might be impolite to get them confused. 

....

"i've hired a sling room. how big are your fists? can you be there at 9am?"

...ugh...

the nervous little scottsman "but your advert says this much. why is it extra if you piss on me?" 

....grr....

another late night chem job at Moore Park Gardens ...and then another. also in Moore Park Gardens. in the apartment next door

...disorder...

"i want to get fucked for the first time. i want to have a really hot night. what do you suggest?"

i made a few suggestions then "what is it that you want? i don't know your fantasies. ultimately, you need to tell me"

"yeah. i want to be fucked by a group of guys. i want leather. i'm 19, goodlooking and have a 9" cock. i'll be in sydney next weekend and i have $1000. arrange all that for me."

apart the texts that obviously screamed fake, who would i get around to fuck someone even i have not even seen? and if he wanted me to hire other hookers after i pay them there'll be no cash left for me. 

me. me. me.

...disorder...

the chubby little wogboy who needed a massage between meetings. with my large oiled monkey hands i kneaded his shoulders, marvelling at his newly waxed sack and crack i forgot if he wanted me to fuck him or not. his entire body was hairy except for this strip of hairlessness around his arse. like he was wearing boxers of skin. he rolled over and his cock was fucking huge, a beer can could comfortably hide in it's shadow. i had better remember what he wanted soon...

then back to Moore Park Gardens

...disorder...

i missed a party because a trumpeter wanted company and a quiet saturday night in. he was nervous as hell and very happy. i did want to go to the party and accepted the compensation of a late night ride over the Harbour Bridge

then a midnight incall blow job. after 10 minutes or so he seems terribly disinterested in my penis (he seems like the type to call it a 'penis') that he held it away from his face like he pulled it fresh from a pizza that he specifically insisted on 'no anchovies.' then brushing it aside with the back of his hand while he turned his face away. 

what is your fucking problem? i wanted the smack the hipster quiff right off this bitch

he actually had too much to drink so we sat and chatted about how amazing the Erika Badu concert was earlier that night. 

...disorder...

i made hash brownies so damn strong i had to stop watching Puss In Boots because the plot was too complex. yeah really

...disorder...

the nervous tasmanian that had been aching to see me since i missed him in Hobart 4 months earlier. for all his worries and nerves i was still able to prove to him it was worth the wait

then another 3am blowie, straight as all hell and the second he blew his load would not stop talking about how excited he was the see Madonna's tour in 2 months

...disorder...

"i want to buy your footy shorts. i'll give you $20"

"they cost me $40"

"i'll give you $40"

so the only value my filthy sweaty balls add equals the depreciation? fuck off  "i don't think so"

...disorder...

the bi-monthly 3 way i have with another escort and his regular client. 

after i pull my traumatised cock out form the greying dead flesh of his anus, crushed for life between the huge overweight and varicosed thighs that i hoist off buy shoulders, he pats me on my tattooed calf cramped from carrying both our weights and he condescendingly says: "this is nice. but that's enough, eh? no more tattoos."

...disorder...

delivering a gut full of piss while cruising through Surry Hills down Baptist and Crown Streets and their endless speed bumps. by the time i crossed William my water was about to break all over the tank of my motorcycle. luckily my bladder held out until i dragged the fucker to the ground releasing a hot torrent of piss into his mouth while i stared out the bathroom window admiring Brett Whitely's Matchsticks by the Art Gallery of NSW

....

when the force that governs you is gone, everything falls in to anarchy.

of course i should be taking care of myself. i could choose see this downward spiral as danger sign of my co-dependancy on the Elk... or i could cheer the fuck up and appreciate that i have someone i care for. it's a nice reminder that i'm still in love

fuck. did i say love?

i messaged the Elk late at night while he was gumboot deep in misery and that ever present fine mist of rain Ireland suffers all year round. "are you sure you still want me to come?"

"yes"

"this is your last chance to back out now. i won't be angry. better to say so now..."

"just fucking get here already!"

last days of Sydney - disorder

disorder

the little Thai student who seems the be quite lonely in a new city. he did not have many friends here. in a big house all to himself i came around to nuzzle him into my arms. while he pawed at the hair on the my chest i looked down and watched him gamble hundreds of dollars away online. 

several nights that first week i came around to help him kill time between semesters. i would relax with a beer and lay back while he caressed my hairy thighs. i wished he didn't leave the enormous tv on because i was hypnotised by the wacky european espionage adventures of Tow Mater in Cars 2 instead of fucking his tight little hole. i was helpless to watch it. 

in between gentle cuddles and a vicious mouthrape of someone half my size and half my age i felt like a fucking child molester. i imagine this is what it like to have sex with Bjork

last days of Sydney - insomnia

i worked my guts out. a bad expression for a hooker or a proctologist to use. a 24hour gym can only fill so much time in hours an insomniac isn't sleeping. when you have insomnia everything is a copy of a copy of copy and you treat everything as much respect as you would treat anything disposable. after all, there will be another along any minute now. i'm talking about humans here. 

fuck it. chuck it. take it's cash and hope it had a good time. 

that hope lasts until the door closes behind you. by the time you are in the lift trying to figure out which fucking button is the lobby that hope it gone. your only concern is trying to find a reflective service the check to see if there any stray shots of spunk on your face and frantically swipe it away before the doors open. you're out on the busy street and you've forgotten who they are sometimes wondering if you remembered to grab the cash and subtly fingering which one of your pockets you stuffed the $100 bills into

high class

50 Shades of Surry Hills - part one

chapter one from the brilliant new tumblr 50 Shades of Surry Hills

"I first met Kane in the queue for Bourke Street Bakery. With his beard and tattered mustard sweater, I couldn’t tell if he was a hipster or homeless, but that excited me. Then I saw his limited edition Ray-Bans hanging off his ripped jeans and knew.

He was a few people in front when an argument broke out between him and the staff. “This is ridiculous,” he yelled in an angry, passionate voice, “how could you?” I assumed they’d short-changed him or run out of soy and linseed loaves (they always goes so quick!), but the issue burned far hotter.

“This isn’t single origin coffee!” he screamed at the weeping counter chick. I was outraged and couldn’t believe it. How could she do this?

Kane stormed out and so did I, breathless, my pulse racing. He saw me follow and locked onto the wild, fervent look in my eyes and knew. He took my hand and led me down an alley to a little hole-in-the-wall café that would satisfy our desire. Actually, the first alley was just an alley - he’d got mixed up - but the second revealed our little single-origin oasis. We sat on milk crates and drank macchiatos. They were strong and exotic, if a little overpriced, but I Instagrammed them anyway.


High on caffeine and lust, he kissed me forcefully against the glass of the library and didn’t even care who noticed. It felt so good I almost dropped my newly bought Frankie mag.

We got drunk on cocktails served in old soup tins at the Norfolk. Feeling brave, I told him I’d been bad and wanted him to punish me. He took my iPhone and deleted my Twitter account. I felt so powerless and vulnerable - and free.

Even later when I tried to check-in as he went down on me in the beer garden, he slapped the phone out of my hand. So wild! As I reached climax, I arched my back, whimpered and almost knocked my nachos off the table.

I thought I’d be sated, but our appetite was endless. He took me during happy hour at Forresters and again against the boarded up doors of the Hopetoun, where he used to play gigs with his experimental post-garage band. A bum asked us for a ciggie but we didn’t even notice. We tried to get into The Winery but got denied so settled for a quickie in the toilets at the Gassie while a drunk vomited in the trough.

Hours later - raw, ragged and spent - we shared New York Slice with doe eyes. The night had been so brazen, so dangerously dirty, I didn’t even care when he confessed he lived in Marrickville. I just wouldn’t tell my friends that part.

As he left, I called out and told him I’d find him on Facebook. He simply said he wasn’t on it and walked into the night."

spank bank

last weeks in sydney - vicarious

the best word to describe those final days. empty your house. pack your bags. tie up your own (and your boyfriend's) loose ends. if that was all, frantic would sum it up perfectly. but as every manwhore knows, from the pornstars and  international playboy to wandering vagrants, the second you advertise that you are only in town for a limited time every man and his frisky dingo wants to hire you one last time

Apple know it by limiting stock. Sony knew it by slowly relaxing a new playstation console. oversupply is met with malaise. having something readily available is not appealing. johns become complacent when they think you are a hooker who sits around the house waiting for the phone to ring.

those who own a dog knows that when Rover seems to be disinterested in dinner the second you try to drag his bowl away any attempts will be met with growling threats to rip your arm from socket. 

create demand by limiting supply. 

i have even advertised i was leaving town when i had no intention to. just because i needed a sudden injection of cash that week. 

"i thought you were leaving town?"

"oh… umm… that got cancelled," while my motorbike got a new set of wheels

plus everyone loves a jet setter. let them live vicariously through you. let them hire a piece.

i'm mentioned before how many clients are disappointed that i don't have a drug habit to support. some want to know i'm sucking dick for drugs. maybe that makes them feel better. that they're making a difference in a junkies life. that they are talking a walk on the wild side and just for an hour or two living your filthy degenerate life. nothing is more boring than sucking dick to pay off a credit card. paying a student loans has it's appeal with promise of a better life, but not so you can buy a new plunger for your Bodum. 

if it doesn't bother you, let them pity you if it makes them feel better

so an overseas holiday is good for them too. knowing their money is going to a worthwhile cause. one they can aspire to or reminisce and envy. 

whatever the reason, it works

so many phone calls. so many new clients crawled out of the wood work. longtime listener - first time caller. i worked my guts out 

whoring tips: twin peaks

whoring tips #2 - keep yourself busy

sitting around waiting for your next john to ring can be fucking boring. so keep yourself busy. satisfy your love of art-house film directors and hipster lust for retro gaming simultaneously with the fucked up Atari 2600 Twin Peaks Video Game!

mac or PC downloadable here

last days of sydney - plans

i don't make plans

plans turn to shit. they rarely work out so why put so much effort into planning something only to have it not work out. at least that's my excuse for being a lazy fuck and stumbling into just about every situation. that's not to say i'm unprepared. do your research. thoroughly. so when the walls of steaming shit start collapsing around you, hopefully you will be ready to duck and cover

Our plans to fly to Berlin were snuffed out in just a few short phone calls. bad news from home - someone in the family was not well. old people can be selfish like that. damn them threatening to shuffle off at any moment! the Elk had to fly back to Ireland. right now

when you have lived with someone and constantly been buried deep up each others arses for the last 5 months it's a strange feeling to suddenly be alone. i would spend the next three weeks packing up what revealed itself to be an obscene amount of crap we had accumulated. the worst being half my bodyweight in fucking Le Creuset kitchenware

i had prepared for just about everything except being on my own again. my sleeping disorder was eager to slip back under the covers with me. insomnia is not a welcome friend, more of a relative that regularly comes to stay for a while unannounced. it makes you do strange things. one side effect was listening to The Best of The Supremes and System Of A Down's Toxicity relentlessly. but on the whole, not such a bad thing because only sleeping a couple fo hours a night just gave me more time for 3 of the weirdest fucking weeks of work to rake up cash for Berlin

shit

source: theclassyissue.com