CityBoyz Page 3

  “Huh. Well, thanks for the information. I’d better get back to work.”

  “Yeah, I could use another couple of sliced lemons—oh, and a lime, too.”

  “Coming right up.”

  The next time Remi went out into the main bar room, the guy named Guiche was gone. Remi was tempted to ask Maxim whether Guiche had left with another man—presumably a john. But, after all, it was none of Remi’s business. And he didn’t want to give Maxim an excuse to tease him some more. Being attracted to a complete stranger, let along developing an instant infatuation with him—lust at first sight, so to speak—that was a dead giveaway that a gay guy was young and still hopelessly naïve.

  At the end of his shift, Remi collected his money from Maxim, went home to his modest apartment, and got some sleep—just as many other residents of the city were getting up and preparing themselves to go to work.

  When he got up and started going about his business on that Saturday afternoon, however, Remi lost little time before he logged onto the Internet and searched for Guiche, the local escort. Somewhat to his annoyance, he discovered that Maxim hadn’t steered him wrong, or exaggerated. Guiche “popped up,” all right. Seemingly all over the place!

  Well … at least he appeared, prominently, on certain adult websites which dealt with male escorts in Montréal. There he was, listed on the first such site Remi clicked open. There were four color photos—a fairly large one, with a row of three smaller thumbnails lined up in a row under it. Remi was so startled by the images that he took little notice of the accompanying text at first.

  The large photo was a close-up of Guiche leaning over another man’s crotch. Both men were naked, and Guiche, facing the camera and looking directly into it, was sucking the other man’s cock. About all you could see of this faceless guy was his lower belly, his pubic bush, and the tops of his parted thighs. And, of course, his cock, which was very long, very thick, and very hard. Guiche had the head of the massive erection inside his mouth, and his lips were about halfway down the shaft. He had his cheeks sucked in, obviously providing some strong suction, and his sexy eyes stared into the camera unflinchingly, even proudly and defiantly, with a smoldering intensity. Remi couldn’t believe that a guy would let such an explicit photo go out over the Internet, where anybody could log on and see him sucking that big cock with such obvious, unashamed relish!

  The first of the three smaller photos showed Guiche standing facing the camera and smiling seductively. He was not only shown full frontal nude—he was displaying his own quite impressive erection. In the second shot, he was lying face down, with his head turned toward the camera. He was smiling as he showed off his broad muscular back and his firm round bare buttocks. In the third photo, he was seated in a chair, leaning back with his legs spread. Once again, he was flaunting his hard cock; but the pose was clearly chosen to reveal his trademark perineum piercing. Guiche had his balls cupped in the palm of one hand. He was lifting his genitals slightly up and to one side in his palm, as though he was gauging their weight; and as he did so he was providing the camera with an unobstructed view of the thick surgical stainless steel ring inserted in his taint. To Remi, the piercing looked quite barbaric. But he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off it.

  “Fuck,” Remi muttered, under his breath. “I guess it pays to advertise!” He had to admit—the pictures were hot. There was a whorish depravity about him which he found compelling.

  He finally got around to reading the accompanying text. In French, but with the odd English word tossed in, it was brief and to the point.

  Nouveau à Montréal!!! 8 uncut!!! Guiche!!!

  (In any other context, the triple exclamation marks might have seemed excessive. But Remi decided that, in Guiche’s case, some hyperbole was justified.)

  Enculeur du premiere classe. Reçois et me déplace, ne hésitez pas à me contracter pour un rendez-vous ou pour de renseignements. In-call: 150. Out-call: 180.

  And, for those who wished to contact Guiche, the self-proclaimed “first-class fucker,” to “get him going,” to arrange “a get-together or for more information,” there was a phone number, an e-mail address, and a link to his website. The prices were presumably in Canadian dollars.

  Remi clicked on the link to the escort’s personal site.

  Here there was virtually the same bilingual spiel, along with more photos—which were, incredibly, even more explicit. Photos of Guiche, unashamedly naked and erect. Masturbating, while smiling at the camera. Sucking another guy’s huge cock. Taking a man’s big cock up his ass, in a variety of positions. Rimming a faceless dude, whose buttocks were spread obscenely wide, to expose the anal pucker which Guiche was kissing, licking, sucking, and tongue-fucking. Finally, Guiche demonstrated his own skill as a fucker, driving his dick into more than one man’s asshole, and in more than one position.

  The male prostitute’s personal website including a useful feature—calendars for each month, showing on which days and times the “escort” was available. Johns could reserve a slot, subject to their subsequent contact with Guiche and his confirmation. Payment had to be made in advance, of course, by credit card!

  “What a whore,” Remi exclaimed, aloud. “The dirty slut!”

  He was rather disillusioned. He felt disgusted, by the thought that such an attractive guy could sell himself, so blatantly—so whorishly. It all seemed terribly cynical and mercenary.

  At the same time, though, Remi couldn’t help wondering just how much money Guiche was making, by peddling his mouth, his dick, and his ass.

  I could be in the wrong line of work, Remi told himself, humorously. Busting my ass at CityBoyz, when I could be ringing up a sale every time I get down on my knees and suck a dick, or spread my ass and take a cock up my hole!

  Chapter Two: An Erotic Rendezvous

  During the next week, Remi caught himself obsessing about Guiche—to the extent of hoping he’d come into the bar again, one night when Remi was on duty.

  Suppose he did? Then what? Remi assumed he might be able, in the course of his comings and goings behind the bar, to catch the guy’s eye. He might even be able to take some time out—during one of his breaks, maybe—to exchange a few words with him.

  But did he really think Guiche would be interested in him? To put it bluntly—would the hustler find Remi so irresistible that he’d want to fuck him, for free? Ordinarily, there was nothing wrong with Remi’s self-esteem. He had his fair share of guys who were attracted to him. In this situation, though, he reluctantly had to agree with Maxim, who’d told him that Guiche was “out of his league.”

  Maxim had also warned Remi that Guiche was trouble. Unfortunately, instead of frightening Remi off, that only made Guiche seem more intriguing to him. The thrill of the forbidden was hard to underestimate, or to counteract.

  And so Remi found himself giving serious thought to doing something he’d never imagined himself doing. Namely, paying for sex!

  After working the next weekend at CityBoyz, including a Sunday afternoon shift, he counted his accumulated tips, reviewed his monthly budget, comparing his income to his expenditures, and he concluded that he could afford to spend a hundred and fifty dollars on hiring Guiche’s services. It’d be an extravagance—a waste of money, maybe. But Remi couldn’t help himself.

  I know I’m going to regret this, he lectured himself, sternly. But what the fuck? I can’t regret it until I’ve actually done it!

  Lots of gay men hire hustlers, apparently. I’ll give it a try, just this once, to find out what it’s like, and to get it out of my system. Then I’ll never do it again!

  It was Monday afternoon. Remi wasn’t working at CityBoyz on the upcoming Thursday evening. Impulsively, recklessly, he went onto the escort’s website, where he studied the current month’s calendar there. Guiche had Thursday evening open, apparently, so far. Feeling a strange combination of excitement and shame, Remi logged on and tentatively booked Guiche for that night, from eight to nine P.M. Then he had to contact Guiche to co
nfirm the appointment. Nervously, he took out his cell phone and he tried the escort’s number.

  He didn’t know whether he was disconcerted, or encouraged, when he received a live response, at once!

  “Hello. Guiche, here.” He had a rather low-pitched speaking voice, warm and sexy. “Shall we speak in French, or in English?”

  “French, please. Hi. I’m, ah, my name is Remi.”

  “Nice to meet you, Remi. What can I do for you?”

  “I just booked you, on your website. For Thursday night.”

  “Hold on a minute. Oh, yeah. So I see.”

  “You’re looking at it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well—are you available Thursday night, at eight?”

  “Certainly. Will this be an in-call, or an out-call?”

  “Ah—an in-call, I guess. Those are cheaper, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Because it’s more convenient for me. One fifty, as opposed to one eighty. Of course, tipping is encouraged, if I do a good job. And I always do a good job.”

  Guiche said all this in a direct, businesslike manner which Remi found more intimidating than encouraging.

  “Where are you? Can I have the address?” Remi asked.

  “Sure.” Guiche gave Remi the address, which Remi wrote down. “Do you know how to get here?” Guiche asked.

  “Yes. It’s not that far from where I live, actually.”

  “Good. Now, would you like to pay with a credit card?”

  “How do I know it’s safe? You know, secure?”

  “I’m not in the habit of ripping off my customers.”

  “Still, you’re a—”

  “A whore? That’s right,” Guiche acknowledged, without audible heat or resentment. “Which means I always get my money up front. There’s no refund if you decide not to show up, by the way. So—do you want to give me your payment info—or don’t you?”

  “All right, I do, I guess.” Remi provided the information.

  There was a pause, while Guiche presumably ran the credit card data through the system. “That’s fine,” Guiche confirmed. “We’re all set.”

  “So—I’ll see you on Thursday, at your place, at eight?”

  “Absolutely. Looking forward to it.”

  “I want to make sure I get my money’s worth.”

  “Oh, you will. You sound nervous. There’s no need to be.”

  “I’m not nervous. Not at all.”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  “Of course not!”

  “If you are—that’s okay, you know. That’s one of my specialties, you know. Steering a guy through his first experience with another man.”

  “Well, for your information, I’ve had plenty of men!”

  “Yeah?” Guiche sounded amused.

  “Hell, yeah. And they’ve all been satisfied.”

  “Good for you.”

  Remi was taken aback. Was this man whore making fun of him?

  “For your information, I’m not so bad-looking. But I suppose you’re used to fucking ugly, fat old men,” Remi said, rather insultingly.

  “Sure. That’s an occupational hazard, in my line of work,” Guiche agreed, calmly. “The trick, you see, is to find something attractive—something you can relate to, and get off on—in every man. Maybe he’s overweight, but he’s got a big cock, and he’s potent. Maybe he’s homely to look at, but he’s got a nice personality, and he’s fun to be with. It’s all relative. Give and take. Well—since you’re so experienced, mon ami, is there anything in particular—anything special—you’d like us to do? I ask that just in case I need to, you know, prepare anything ahead of time.”

  “No. I just want the basics. Basic sex. I just want to have a good time.”

  “No problem. I’m sure I can provide that.”

  “Just be there when I show up on Thursday night, will you?” Remi grumbled.

  “Of course. See you then.”

  The moment he hung up, Remi experienced shame, and remorse. He’d booked a whore! He’d blown a hundred and fifty dollars on it!

  Still, now that he’d committed himself, he told himself that he might as well go through with it.

  On Thursday evening, unsure of the protocol required when paying a call on a male prostitute, Remi rather obsessively prepared for his assignation. He showered thoroughly, and even shampooed his hair, which he blow-dried and brushed. He gave himself a couple of discreet spritzes of cologne. It seemed absurd to try to “dress to impress” a man with whom he’d presumably be getting naked and jumping into bed, so he picked out some clean, but casual, clothes.

  Remi had already done some online banking inquiry, to confirm that the hundred and fifty dollars had promptly been debited from his account and was now in Guiche’s pocket. No surprise, there. But then there was the question of the tip. How much did one tip an escort? Ten per cent? Fifteen? Twenty? Undecided, Remi made sure he had enough cash on him to cover the possibility of twenty per cent. But, he told himself, Guiche had better be damned good at his job, if he really expected to receive that much!

  “Damn,” Remi muttered, as he got ready to leave his apartment. “I might as well be a virgin. I am new at this!” He hoped he wasn’t making a huge mistake—letting himself in for a bitter disappointment.

  Remi lived in the city’s Southwest Borough, so named because it lay southwest of downtown’s Ville-Marie neighborhood. It was a working-class area, gradually becoming gentrified, where it was still possible to find low rents. Guiche’s address was in the trendier Plateau-Mont-Royal Borough, where rents tended to be higher, even for smaller apartments.

  Remi was curious to see how a hustler lived. Taking the bus, he found the address without any difficulty. Guiche lived on a block of shops, fast food places, and cafés, and his apartment was located on a second floor, above one of the storefronts.

  There was an intercom. Using it, Remi identified himself, and Guiche buzzed him through. Remi climbed the stairs. Guiche was waiting for him, standing—or rather, lounging—in his open doorway, looking very much at his ease. He wore jeans, those same pricey training shoes he’d had on at the bar, without socks, and a snug-fitting, torso-hugging black T-shirt.

  “Hi,” he greeted Remi.

  “Hi.”

  “You’re right on time, which I appreciate.”

  “Well—I gave myself extra time, in case I had to look for the number.”

  “You look familiar,” Guiche remarked. “Do we know each other?”

  “No. Maybe you’ve seen me at CityBoyz. I work there, as one of the bar backs.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s it. I remember seeing you there. That’s a fun place. It usually gets an interesting crowd.”

  Remi was flattered that Guiche had noticed him, at least in passing.

  “Well, don’t be shy, Remi. Come in and sit down.”

  “Thanks.”

  Remi was relieved to see that the apartment was no larger than his, and certainly furnished no more luxuriously. Still, it looked comfortable, and Guiche obviously kept it tidy. No doubt it was in his interest to do so, to keep the johns feeling at their ease on the premises.

  There was one hint of upscale elegance. The plain plastered and painted walls were decorated with several large paintings, oil on canvas. All of them seemed to be by the same artist, and all of them were male nudes, with the idealized, muscular bodies rendered in a variety of warm earth tones, against vivid backgrounds of reds, ochres, or oranges. Some of the figures sported unembarrassed, oversized erections.

  “I like the paintings,” Remi said, in an attempt to make small talk.

  “They’re good, aren’t they? They’re by a local artist—a typical starving artist. I think his work is great, but he has trouble selling it. We bartered over those. I got the pictures—and he got laid.” As usual, Guiche said this without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, as though selling sex, or trading it for something other than cash, was an everyday fact of urban life. Maybe, it occurred to Remi, to Guiche
it was precisely that. “Hey,” Guiche went on, “do you want something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ve opened a bottle of wine. Come on, join me,” Guiche coaxed.

  “We only have an hour,” Remi reminded him.

  “Oh, I don’t watch the clock. If we run a little over, I won’t charge you anything extra. You seem kind of tense. I wish you’d relax. This is all about you, you know. I want you to be comfortable, and enjoy yourself.”

  “Well—maybe I will have a glass, then. Thanks.”

  Guiche went into his kitchen, returning with the bottle and two deep-bowled stemmed wineglasses. The wine, Remi noticed when he saw the label, was an inexpensive Canadian pinot noir—but it was good. After taking a first sip, he drank it freely.

  With his own glass in one hand, Guiche sat down opposite Remi. Leaning over, Guiche unlaced his trainers and kicked them off. Remi observed this prelude to undressing, feeling a hot throb of excitement and anticipation pulse through him. Guiche was going to be his, at his sexual disposal—for an hour, at least.

  Barefoot, Guiche leaned back comfortably in his chair, drank his wine, and studied his guest above the rim of the glass.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Is this your first time doing this?”

  “Yeah,” Remi admitted. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’m afraid it is, but that’s perfectly all right. No boyfriend?” Guiche asked.

  “No one steady. Not at the moment.”

  “You’re a good-looking guy,” Guiche said. “Why are you paying for it?”

  “What business is that of yours? What do you care, as long as you’re getting paid?”

  Guiche shrugged. “Just asking. Just trying to make conversation. If you don’t want a lot of talk—then just say so.”

  “I don’t mind talking. This is kind of pleasant, actually. But I also want—well, sex, I guess.”

  “Fine. Drink up. There’s plenty. Just tell me when you’re like to get started.”