Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2013 10:10:35 -0700 (PDT) From: Macout Mann <macoutmann@yahoo.com> Subject: HUSTLER TALES 7 DO YOU HAVE A TALE ABOUT HUSTLING OR BEING HUSTLED? You're welcome to add your story to this series. This is the last of the stories I've planned (I may add others later). Meanwhile, if you have a Hustler Tale, feel free to send it to me at macoutmann@yahoo.com. I'll put it into the proper format, put your name in the byline as the author, and add it to the series. I do reserve the right to edit your stories, things such as putting it into "first person narrative" form (if it's not already), making conversation paragraphing conform to nifty guidelines, and correcting typos or unintended grammatical fluffs. But if I do, I will send it back for your approval, before submitting it to nifty. Please send your submission in Word. Works, or text. Love to hear from you. Macout These are short stories about male prostitution. If the idea of that turns you off, or if you are underage, please read no further. Otherwise, please enjoy. All characters and events are fictional. You can reach me at macoutmann@yahoo.com. I appreciate your input, and please let me have your reaction to the series. I will answer every email. Reading the story is free, but if you wish to keep this service available to all, please make a contribution to nifty.org. Thank you. HUSTLER TALES VII REGULARS by Macout Mann Wandering around the country, living by your wits and hustling, there aint no such thing as regulars. Once I was back home in Atlanta, though, it wasn't long before I got some. Funny. A lot of Johns are looking for variety. After they've been with you once, you're no more use. Others like to come back again and again. They like it that you know what they're into. And some of them are really "in love" with what you do to them. Never made any difference to me, but having regulars makes the job easier. And that's what it is, you know, a job. May be a lot of fun, but it's still a job. One of my regulars picks me up on Peachtree, usually about seven thirty. If he comes by and I'm not there, he always lets me know about it the next time I see him. Comes around about every two weeks. Sometimes more often. Drives a grey Toyota SUV. Dude's in his forties. Married. Only wants to get sucked. Easy money. His wife must not give him enough pussy. He pulls up. I get in. He heads off to find someplace I can do his thing. A neighborhood park, a dark street, a big parking lot. While he's looking he tells me what's on his mind. Something his wife's done to piss him off. Something that happened at work. He's a loan officer at a bank. Don't know which one. Pretty stressful job seems like. He never talks about sex. I just listen. He finds someplace where he's comfortable, lowers his seat back and pulls out his dick. Usually it's not all-the-way stiff. But I go down on it anyway, and it gets hard in a second or two. I suck. It takes him a while, but when he cums, most of the time I can swallow it without spilling any. I pull off. He zips up, hands me my money, and starts the car. On the way back he tells me some more shit about what's bothering him. Always turns north on Peachtree NE and drops me next to the Georgian Terrace. He never so much as wants to touch me or even see my dick. Like I said, it's easy money. Some guys I know say they have regulars that want them to stay the night. Not me. I sometimes get approached by a dude that's visiting town that wants me to share his hotel room. I like that. Maybe one of these days I'll get checked out by a local that wants to take me home—Oh, I go home with lotsa guys, but not for a overnighter. I see more of my regulars during the day than at night. You never know who you're goanna run into in the park. Or how often. The first time I met Willie, I was at the Grant Park Lake just staring across the water. It was hot and all I was wearing was a sleeveless t and denim shorts. I didn't even know somebody was standing next to me until he spoke. "Hot motherfucker, idn' it?" he said. Now I have a Southern accent, but this son-of-a-bitch sounded like he gargled with cane syrup. "Shore is," I answered. "Day like this gets you hawny as hell," he continued. I looked over at him for the first time. Tall, rugged guy about thirty-five. Maybe Irish. Fair complexion , but black headed with a two-day growth of beard and broad shoulders. He was wearing a pink dress shirt with designer jeans that must've been altered at the hips to emphasize his bulge. "Yeah, horny and hungry," I agreed. "And I gotta find some way to make some money." I let my right hand brush my crotch. "Yew got a big one?" he asked. "Never been ashamed of it," I said. "Can I see it?" "Not here in front of god and everybody," I answered. "You can feel it if you want to." I stuffed my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and flexed 'em so my dick print was real obvious. He got in front of me and gave me a feel. "Niiice," he said. "Want tah go ovar to migh place for a couple of hours. I'll make it worth yore while." "How much worth my while?" I laughed. We agreed on a rate and I walked with him to his car. I coulda guessed it would be a Mercedes. Once inside, I did show my dick. "Wanna make sure it's big enough for ya," I teased. "Yeah. I luv biguns," he replied. "Where 'bouts you get that accent?" I wanted to know. "Ahm from Dothan," he said. "Figures," I responded. Dothan was a South Alabama town about as far into Dixie as you could get. He lives in a nice apartment but not in the "best" part of town. He sure as hell could afford better. "I laik to live here. Don't hafta put on airs," he explained. "And if I don't close the drapes and somebody sees me bareassed, it's no big deal." He did close the drapes and carefully undressed me, not that there was very much to undress. I found the same was true of him. My shit was just cheaper. He wanted the full monty, but it was o.k. with him that I didn't want to kiss. We did everything else, though. He told me he'd been hooking up since he was twelve, but in his line of work he couldn't afford to be "out." Never said what his line of work was. But when he was "in," he sure as shit knew how to do whatever. Must have had some fucking good teachers down in Dothan. His two hours ended with me pumping his ass for close to half an hour. I'd already cum twice, so I could just pounded him until he begged for my cream and I gave it to him. I see him ever so often. We have a running joke. He walks up and drawls, "I already know what it looks like." I say, "You want to see it again." He says, "I want to feel it again." I say, "It'll cost ya." He says, "I know, but it's worth it." One of these days I might even let the motherfucker kiss me. Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.