Date: Sun, 14 May 2000 12:59:45 -0700 (PDT)
From: samuel taylor <jared_00_00@yahoo.com>
Subject: MotorCycling Hustling 4

MotorCycling Hustling 4
by jared
Disclaimer: adults only! no minors!
Same-sex-theme story.

4.
It is still a young night by my standards,
the bars haven't let out, and plenty of
people are swarming around looking for
fun in the city. My writer client the 62 year
old gentleman, wants a quick bj---he
says can only afford 50$ tonight, so I will
be nice and throw in a poem I wrote out during my
coffee break. He loves my
sensual body electric----i sing
praise for our worded companionship---
He likes it when I recite my poem naked,
while he fondles my tits and ball sac--
his frail hands feel like thin skeleton
keys clasping my small dick.
I arrive and approach his door, where he greets me in
a bath robe-a cotton ruby red garment,
he wears just for the occasion.
He ages well carrying a slender gaunt
face, bony cheek bones, sunken eyes behind a
gold frame glasses, a shock of white hair,
neatly trimmed. I often count the
wrinkles of his brow, as I lay next to him
and nestle, before sucking his
long aged restless dry dick, a frail
member that tells many histories of
gorgeous boys, throughout his writing
career. I often think that I am sucking off
another page of his history and will
eventually get down to the core, of his
member a tiny jewel of flesh to be
found where he stored all his limbido
in the early days. His dick is a miniature
mummy wrap in layers of ancient orgasms, yet to be
discovered by my excavation. So far I haven't been
cursed by the awakening the pharaoh!
Vincent is his name, a strong name for
a aged writer, He kisses me, and I sit
down on his plush sofa in the palour.
"Well my gifted poet, what have you
for me tonight?"
"A poem about Homo-Shame!"
Vincent places fifty dollars in my
new pants, sliding it underneath the waist band of my
new fresh white briefs. I feel the sudden
urge to begin my poetry-strip tease, for him, as if we
were suddenly transformed into a bar, where he is
having a power lunch with me, I his author boy, except
I am dancing for him, reciting my poem, he is my
agent-sugar daddy---i must perform my best orgasmic
verse to make him cum his pants. So like the pro i
am--
I start stripping, line by line---i take off an
article of clothing:
     "Wounded drummer boy's face points to the
 grey sky....my shirt flies open....
    as the rain floods his bullet holes.....
 my pants come down....
   a distant mother's call embraces his heart....
my socks are stripped off...
   Don't feel my shame---dear mother.....
A hammer pounds down on her gentle understanding,
turning the bullet into a spear---
my white briefs slide down----

"She stab's her son's liver....
His homo-shame--spreads
as a black plague----
She grows into a hatred boil
he can't reach through her
---a white rose grows from his finger tips.....
sends her a thorn to bleed her,
The son's love melts the bullet
of shame- into his dog tag----
Mother weeps as the Homo-Shame becomes
a bed of white Roses, for her to to send
to the other weeping mothers----
His Homo Shame-----a contained virus,
not exstinct, but dormant for the
harsh future of parents who habour it
quietly---and dangerously,"

My body dances and gyrates nude for my
writer friend, he is in total awe and sexually
charged, as he slowly masterbates,
"The drummer boy's beat
    rattles on in
the victory of his platoon,
His fellow men lift him high
on their shoulders, and
place him on the pyre
His homo-shame is no longer!"

He explodes with a erotic howl!
He grabs my naked body and
forces my head down on his
cock, which I take like a
pro---in 5 minutes he
explodes again and I drink his cum,
a warm mix of human honey--salted by the sea--
i his boy bumble bee---
go buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
in my swallowing of his life force.
He thanks me and shows me the bathroom,
He takes my poem for a momento......
I shower and tuck him in and kiss his wrinkled brow,
with the tenderness of a grandchild,boy I sure do hope
when I get this old,I have someone to tuck my elderly
frame.
I only take 25$ from him,---a senior citizen
discount, and place the other 25$ on his night stand.
Sweet dreams my dear Vincent! Since it is too late
for him to have a ride on my bike, I place
one of his novels in my bike bag, and take this speed
read through between down time, the title of this
short book is "Crying on the Moon" it is a love story
about two young males who seperate during a future
war, between the race of men on the moon and earth.
Sounds like a boring tragedy....I start humming
"Moon River".....down the road.
Funny the moon is out tonight, in half crescent!


Please read my other stories and comment as well,
"A Brother's Keeper" "diary of a prison-work-boy"
email me jared_00_00@yahoo.com