Date: Thu, 7 Jun 2012 13:14:14 -0400
From: blm33@kc.rr.com
Subject: The Eagles' Nest

I, the author, retain all rights to this story. Do not plagiarize.

Sex between men is the theme, so if you are underage for reading such
material where you live, you have been warned. This is total fiction, and
persons and places exist only in my imagination. Enjoy!


THE EAGLE'S NEST

Bill Moretini

Seventy-seven stories up, yet the lousy roaches come. No, I don't mean the
kind you smoke, although I've done that a time or more. I'm talking about
the creepy crawly kind like the one sneaking toward the remains of a slice
of second rate pizza that Willy didn't finish; the piece on the top of my
excuse for a filing cabinet. I would have risen from my swing-back,
swiveling, beat-up office chair, grabbed a weapon and smashed the little
bastard, had it not been for raising dust and irritating my chronic case of
bleeding sinuses. I heard labored footsteps. The door creaked open.

"They were out of the crème filled bagels, Irv," said Willy, "so I got you
a Philly instead. That okay, Irv?"

"I'm too hungry to wait while you go back to hell for something else," I
said. `Hell', being what I called the massive food court on the second
floor of Wiggins and Weston insurance company building where I stealthily
subsist at the very pinnacle of said New York City structure. I lovingly
refer to the gloomy, drab four walls as `the Eagles' Nest`. "Did you
remember to put crème in my coffee?" I asked.

"Sure, boss. Didn't want to make another trip to hell," Willy said with a
grin. "Lots of people down there today."

"Any luck..., you know, one way or the other?"

"Too much security fuzz around to be lifting. Not safe, boss."

"The other kind?" I asked, clawing at my crotch.

"You said you were starved, so I didn't take time to hustle any Johns."

"Did anyone see you take the stairs on the seventy-fifth floor?"

"Of course not!" Willy said. "How dumb do you think I am?"

That was as loaded a question and questions get. Maybe I should tell you
about Willy and me. Me first.

*****

I'm thirty-six. Five foot five short. Getting a bit of a waist from zero
exercise and poor eating habits. Lox and be bagels...lox and bagels. Did I
mention I'm Jewish? Did I mention single? Did I mention that I don't give a
shit about religion or being queer? I just day-to-day it. I have one suit
for special occasions, like when Willy turned a trick who paid him two
hundred green ones. That was five years ago when I was thirty-one and Willy
was nineteen and way beyond cute. But I'll get to him later. I collect
stamps. I occasionally collect billfolds, other peoples, that is. I once
bought a toy pistol and held up a Girl Scout Cookie stand and sold them on
a corner five blocks away at half price, what I didn't eat, that is. Times
were tight, and I was fourteen then. I tried it two weeks later and ended
up running for my life. I didn't see the fat bitch sitting on the park
bench in the shadows of the oak tree. Her two bratty girls left their
concession stand and ran ahead of her, pointing to my ass and screaming,
"That's him, mommy! That's tha fucking son of a bitch that stole our
cookies! Catch and kill!" I ran fast in those days.

Did I mention that Willy was beyond cute? The cocksucker was awesomely
gorgeous and equally sexy. He still is at twenty-four. He never told me how
old he was when he hustled his first trick. Hell, he was only fifteen when
he hustled me! Big mistake. He had more money than I did. But I didn't let
him know that until his mouth was full of my balls. A bigger mistake on my
part. He clamped down and nearly castrated me. Remember that toy pistol? It
was within reach, and I pointed it at the middle of his forehead. He
surrendered and let go. Actually, he still thinks the thing is a real
gun. Did I mention that Willy is not the brightest bulb on the Christmas
tree? But with his looks and a nearly eleven inch dick that my fingers can
barely reach around, who needs brains?

Willy is the bastard son of a Baptist preacher who knocked up Willy's
mother by the name of Liza May, and refused to marry her. He couldn't
anyway because he was already married to a woman named Joan.  Anyway, when
Willy was born he apparently had black blood in him, and the preacher was
so white that he glared in the sun. But Liza May got her revenge. She
threatened to tell Carl's wife and his entire congregation on an Easter
Sunday. He paid off big time. The blackmail was where Willy got his first
outlaw training. However, I was the one who taught him how to pick
pockets. Now he's better at it than me. Go figure.

Our domicile: Don't laugh! Domicile sounds batter than the truth. Twelve by
twelve. One dirty three by three window. Ten foot high ceiling. Heated in
the winter by two Colman single-burner camping stoves. The nearest toilet
was on the twenty-fifth floor, intended for use by janitors only. We shaved
and sponge-bathed in lavatories at the bus station. Things can get
interesting at bus station johns.

Slabs of six inch thick foam atop two army cots were not too bad for
sleeping. They were great for fucking, which we did plenty of. One good
thing about our seventy-seventh floor domicile was that it was quiet,
except when the wind blew hard. And we didn't have to worry about
disturbing anyone above, below or on all four sides. That made it possible
for some great, loud and raucous sex play.

I picked up the used coffee can and shook it.

"Did you hear what I heard, Willy?" I asked.

"So, the last jerk finished paying me with coins. Change spends too!"

"Did you suck him off or bottom for him?"

"I'll have you know, he sucked me off, and then I fucked his fat ass!"

"Do you think my ass is fat?" I asked with a scrutinizing stare.

"It ain't small, boss."

"I can live with that. Are you tricking tonight? We need the money, you
know."

"And I need protein input before squirting protein output. I'm starved!"
Willy complained. "I'm going down to hell for a burger and a shake. Want
anything else?" he asked. I shook my head, `no'.

*****

Nineteen days later, cabin fever took it's toll. I told Willy that I had to
get out of there, and told him to stay behind till I got back. Actually, I
wanted to hammer some guys' ass, something that Willy didn't like, and
something I really missed. But I would never admit that to him that I would
have sex with someone else.  Well, little did I suspect that I was about to
have a rude awakening.

I took the sub and got off less than a block from my favorite watering hole
where I used to easily score a sixty-nine or even a bottom to screw. It was
'happy hour' and beginning to fill up. I quickly moved to the bar and
parked my caboose onto a swiveling bar stool and signaled the butch,
bare-chested and hunky bar tender. While I waited, I looked around for some
nice looking piece of prime nookie to bed with.

"Well?"

I spun around. "Oh! Do you know how to make a 'black Russian'?"

"I wouldn't be working here if I didn't!" snapped the miffed bartender, and
turned, presumably, to make the drink. I waited and waited. He made three
drinks for others before he got to mine. I was pissed.

"Leaving you hanging, is he?"

"Uh, yeah. Uh..., you look familiar," I said.

"Yeah, you do too. Tim Hawkens here."

"Tim Hawkens! I once had..., well..., you. I`m Irving Silverstone."

"Irv..., da Jew! Fuck yeah, man! You're the fag who could take two pricks
up his poopshoot and barely squeal! How tha shit are ya, man?"

"Five bucks, Charlie!" squawked the bartender above the loud music.

"Huh? Oh, the drink. In the first place, my name is not Charlie. And in the
second place, since when did the price go up?" I asked, frowning.

"It'll go up again in about five seconds, un-Charlie!"

"Allow me," said my new old friend, the dear old friend who offered to pay
for my drink. "Keep the change, buddy," Tim said.

"Thanks for tha drink...uh, Tim. Tim Hawkens! How you been?" I asked.

"Can't complain. Do'n good! How about you?"

"Couldn't be better," I lied with a straight face.

"Great to hear!" he said, and slapped me on the back nearly knocking the
wind out of me. "I'm in real estate. Commercial. That's where the big bucks
are. So what brings you in here? Looking for a big ole' sausage to fill
that loose hole?"

I was seething. But I kept my cool under duress.

"Just because you didn't have what it takes to fill it, doesn't
mean...". He cut me off.

"Sorry, old friend. Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers. So, you been
getting any good stuff lately?"

"As a matter of fact, I have!" I said as I took my first sip. "Damn! That's
a weak fuck'n drink," I said. "Uh, what about you?"

"Ooooh yeah! A few nights ago, I picked up this darling hustler and took
him to my ninety-second story, modernly furnished penthouse for some really
hot fun. He did an awesome strip tease for me, you know, to get thinks
warmed up. You should have seen the dick on that gorgeous creature! Nearly
eleven inches, so he claimed, and I believe it too. Luckily, he wanted me
to screw him. That was one hell of a hot ass, let me tell you! He said he
lived with some loser who only wanted to get screwed and had no versatility
in bed. Bossy too, he said. I felt sorry for him."

"A hustler? Nearly eleven inches? Sounds too good to be true. Do you
remember his name? I might be interested in that piece myself."

"Uh..., let me think. Oh yeah! It was Willy! Willy the wanker. He wanked
off while I poured the dick to him. I gave him my bizz card. I want another
shot at Willy, boy. Heh! I could hook you up with him! would you like that,
Irv, baby?"

"Uh..., maybe. A penthouse, huh? You must be well healed. How much did that
hustler named Willy charge you?"

"Five big ones, but he was well worth every cent."

"FIVE! So you mean five...bucks?" I asked, feeling, and I'm sure, looking
perplexed.

"Five bucks? That's funny! You've got a great sense of humor, Irv."

That fucker began laughing and nearly fell off the barstool. You've never
seen a man guzzle a drink faster than I did. I spun on that stool and mowed
my way through the groping, smooching, feeling up bunch of cock sucking,
butt fucking queers, like a snow plow clears a street. I was pissed.

"Five hundred fucking bucks!" I yelled as I swept down the subway stairs. I
paced while I anxiously awaited the train.

"You giving away five hundred bucks...mister?" asked a meek, shabby,
barefoot boy who followed me down the subway stairs.

"Awe, shut up!" I yelled, garnering a bunch of frowns from onlookers. He
shoot me the bird and ran up the stairs.

I boarded the train and pushed an old bag lady out of the way to get a
seat. I crossed my arms and simmered. [He held out on me, the damn
shit. Five hundred dollars, and he never puts more than one hundred in the
coffee can, at the most!], I thought. But would I confront the bread
winner? No way. My stamp collection was all of the collateral that I had to
my name, except what Willy shared with me from his sex jobs. I depended on
him to survive! Did I mention that I considered Willy to be my happy slave?
My go-for?

I was a louse. A jerk. A moocher. A deadbeat. A schmuck. And I couldn't
sell my bod for a dime. It's all about youth, equipment and looks, and
looks doesn't mater if you've got the equipment. And Willy had enough
equipment for two guys. If Hawkens was telling the truth, Willy let Hawkens
fuck him. It never occurred to me that he would want my cock humping his
buns.

Amends were in order. But where to start was the question. I could not tell
him about my conversation with Tim. I couldn't even mention Tim Hawkens
name, let alone the five hundred dollars, because I wasn`t supposed to have
sneaked to a gay bar on Willy, and know about any of it. But being the
conniver I am, I soon got and idea.

*****

"Forty-nine, ninety nine, including tax," said the grubby little squab
behind the counter who looked like he`d been in every shady business known
to man.

"What! I walked eight fucking blocks to pay that price for a hunk of
flexible plastic?" I said rather rudely.

"Heh, buddy, I've got plenty of smaller dildos. You picked the biggest one
I have. What else can I show you?"

"A fucking receipt! Here's fifty, and keep tha damn penny. Write it up," I
said.

"By the size of this dildo, your ass must be a loose goose," he said,
displaying a crude smirk.

"No bigger than your mouth," I said, returning the smirk.

I don't think he liked my attitude. He said nothing more and tossed the
fake dick, packaged in clear plastic, into a black paper bag. I headed back
to the Eagles' Nest and to Willy.

*****

When I opened the door to the Nest, Willy was fast asleep on his cot. My
plan was embryonic, so I let him sleep while I thought things
through. Things were dire. If Willy consistently drew big bucks hustling
high rollers, why would he need me? For that matter, why did he need me
now?

He didn't.

My ego was deflating faster than a pricked balloon. Speaking of pricks, I
took the heavily veined dildo out of the bag and examined it more
closely. The label read, A TRUE REPRODUCTION OF FORMER PORN STAR, WILLY THE
WHOPPER.

I gasped. My jaw dropped. I slowly removed the fake dick from it's package
and began to trace the veining, the widely flanged head and the overall
size. It was Willy, alright.

"What cha got there, Irv?"

"Huh! Uh, you're awake! Have a...good nap?" I stuttered.

"Yeah. Where did you get that?"

"What? Oh this! It's a gift, Willy..., a gift for you!"

"It looks familiar. Toss it here," he said.

In addition to being speechless, I couldn't look Willy eye to eye. I just
tossed the thing in his direction. Would he recognize his own dick? He
should, he's lived with it his whole life. Humm, how much did he get paid
for having his dick duplicated? How much did he get paid for making porn
videos? Why did he keep that a secret from me? Humm.

"That's mine!" said Willy. "Why and where did you get it. Do you want me to
fuck you with it instead of the real thing? I don`t understand."

"I...I..., I got it for...you, Willy. I thought you might want to try
getting fucked."

"I do not do that!"

Another rude awakening. I wasn't the only one who could lie. Willy, Tim and
I were an orgy of liers! But if I called him on it, he would know that I
knew about him and Tim Hawkens. He would know that I know about the five
hundred hustle. He would know that I went to a gay bar, and think that I
wanted to rub dicks with someone else. That would be true, and not good.

"I just thought that you might want to try it, honey."

"Honey? What's going on here, Irving?" Willy asked belligerently.

"Do you have something you'd like very much to tell me?" I asked.

"No! But I'd like to tell you that I'm moving out, A S A P!"

"You can't do that, Willy. Where would you go? What about me?"

"I met someone named Tim. He knows how to treat me right and I really like
him. And he would never lie to me like you do!"

Now that was real irony. If he only knew.

*****

Washing dishes for a burger joint and sleeping in the shop's broom closet
was my first job. Eight months later, I was flipping burgers. Ten months
later, I was waiting tables in the same greasy spoon joint. It was late on
a Saturday night and I was frazzled. The front door opened and in came,
guess who.

"Well hi, Irving. So we meet again," said Tim.

"Yeah, hi, Irv," said Willy. "We thought we'd go slumming for a
change. Lobster and steak gets boring after a while. How you doing? Oh, I
can see how you're doing. Could you show us the best seat in the house?"

"I fucking quit!!!"

Note: Life can be cruel.

PS. I've still got that big dildo that I kept for myself. That way I still
enjoy a part of Willy, so to speak, when I go solo. Humm.

*****

I hope you enjoyed the story. All comments, good or bad, are very welcome
at... blm33@kc.rr.com