Chapter 5

George was in a foul mood. He was, in fact, angry-angry at everyone and everything. The plane had been delayed in San Francisco because of fog, and it was already early evening before he even arrived in Boston. The baggage collector at the airport, the cab driver caught in the traffic jam, the desk clerk and the bellboy: all of them had functioned with an excessive slowness so that he had finally lost patience and begun snapping at people in an uncharacteristic manner. He wanted desperately to take a hot shower. His crotch still felt sticky from the blow job he had had in the terminal at San Francisco, and he was impatient to scrub his cock and balls clean of the residue of that ugly encounter. In his haste, however, everything had conspired to keep him from washing his crime away.

When he was finally alone in the hotel room, George immediately locked the door and stripped. He pulled his jockey shorts off quickly and, wadding them up into a ball, tossed them angrily into the wastepaper basket Then he looked down at his flaccid cock. He almost expected to see some mark, some permanent indication left by the young man's frantically sucking mouth. His cock looked innocent, hanging limply from his crotch, the foreskin loosely cradling the thick rim of the head. Reaching down, he cupped his balls in his right hand. They were slightly sticky with the saliva kept moist and slimy by the day's perspiration. He shuddered and walked into the bathroom, still cupping the hairy sac between his legs.

He would feel better after a shower. Then the sensation of being dirty would pass. Once he was clean again, he could find Philip in the phone book.

George turned on the water and immediately began to soap his balls, working up a strong lather. He forced his mind to go blank, to think of nothing but to merely experience the pleasurable cleansing action of the soap against his skin. His mind, however would not go blank. The image of the young man on his knees, slurping over George's rigid cock, kept flashing into his mind. George shut his eyes tightly and tried to make the image disappear. It would not go away, but it did begin gradually to change. The young man changed into Philip. In his mind Philip was on his knees before George, licking and sucking his cock, while George issued out Philip's command of years ago, "Eat me, then. Eat that fucking cock!"

George opened his eyes. He was panting as he stared down between his legs in horror. His cock, covered with soap, was jumping forward, struggling to explode. George drew his hand away quickly-and murmured, "Dear God."

He ignored the erection although If persisted. He dried himself, carefully drying the cock in such a way as to avoid increasing the aching pressure for release. He pulled on a clean pair of undershorts, but the head of the cock protruded above the waist band. He angrily pushed it to the side, willing the persistent hard-on to go away. The prick continued to struggle, straining against the soft cotton prison of the shorts, demanding satisfaction, demanding control.

George walked across the room, reached behind the lowered shade and threw the window wide open. The night air was cool, cooler than he was accustomed to living in Hillsborough. The ache in his loins refused to subside. He considered jacking off, but he knew instinctively that masturbation would not even begin to satisfy the raging fire in his belly. Instead, he reached for the phone book.

For the first time it occurred to George that Philip might have moved or might have an unlisted number. He opened the book and quickly turned to the listings for "B." His finger ran down the page until it settled on the number for Philip Bannigan. George leaned forward with a rush of relief, and, as he leaned forward, he felt the rock-hard cock press into his stomach.

He picked up the phone and gave the switchboard operator Philip's number.

"Hello?" A strange voice, distant and complaining.

"Philip?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the line followed by, "Oh, it's always for her!"

"I beg your pardon?" George said. "Is this the residence of Philip Bannigan?"

"My, she's getting imagine ones these days. Yes, it is, sweetie, but she's not here."

George realized with a shock that the voice, whining and cloying as it sounded, belonged to a man. He could not, would not associate that voice with Philip. Not the Philip he had known and admired at the university.

"It's very urgent," Philip said. "Can you tell me how I might reach him?"

"Urgent?" the voice gushed and George decided the person speaking was either drunk or drugged.

"Yes, urgent. I've come from San Francisco especially to see him. We went to school together."

"Oh! I'm sorry, darling, I thought you were one of her sailor tricks."

"I'm not a sailor and I don't even know what a trick is. Now, can you please tell me where to find Philip?" George was losing his temper again. He frowned into the phone and glanced away. His eyes fell onto his crotch. The hard-on had subsided. He felt the cock withdraw into the foreskin.

"Well, she's probably at The Closet"

"The Closet?"

"Mary, she may get them pretty but they sure are dumb. The Closet. You know, the gay bar?"

"Oh," Philip said. "Of course. Thank you."

"Charmed, I'm sure," the voice purred.

Philip hung up and leaned back in the chair. He felt that Philip must have fallen upon very hard times to put up with such a ... such a ... creature! He shuddered and put his hand to his forehead. Not Philip. Not the proud young athlete. It couldn't be. But there had been no mistake. He had called Philip's house and that creature, for whatever reason, had been there. Feeling a chill, George got up and closed the window.

With sudden determination, he called the front desk and asked to have the bellboy sent to his room. Then he unlocked the door and resumed his seat.

The bellboy responded quickly. When he entered the room and saw George sitting in his jockey shorts, he smiled faintly and George read contempt into the smile. He looked at the boy. He was young, probably Italian, wearing his tight-fitting uniform with ease and assurance. George held out a five dollar bill and said, "Find me a woman. Fast"

The bellboy took the money and turned away. George looked up and found himself staring at the firm buttocks as they moved away from him. He leaned forward quickly to cover the hard-on which had returned with a renewed force and vigor. He got up and laid across the bed to await the visitor.

The hotel probably kept a small staff of girls on tap, because she knocked on the door within ten minutes.

"Come in," George called. He felt his body tense. He had only had one woman in his life: Veronica. One woman and one man, he thought ironically. An even score. Until now.

She came in and locked the door behind her. A relatively pretty young woman from the Irish part of town with a mass of thick, red hair.

She smiled at him, and he noticed with distaste that her teeth were bad. "Oh," she said, "you've got it all ready for me."

He looked down at fee protruding lump in his jockey shorts. "Raging," he said.

"Great. The kid tell yon the price?"

"No."

"Twenty bucks. In advance." She stood at the foot of the bed, obviously interested in the size of the swelling in his shorts, but unwilling to budge without the cash.

He sighed. There was no reason for him to take it personally. It was, after all, a business deal. Somehow he wished it were a little less business-like. He got off the bed and walked towards his trousers. Her gaze followed him as he pulled out his wallet and handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

As if sensing his annoyance, she said, "Nothing personal, you know. A girl just has to protect herself. Sometimes they get to feeling bad after it's over, you know, and then they won't cough up."

"It's okay," he said and climbed back onto the bed. "No hard feelings. Just a hard cock."

She was going to strip for him. Turning slightly away from him, she slowly unzipped her flimsy dress and pushed it forward off her shoulders. Then she turned to face him with her legs spread apart and began rotating her hips. As she did so, she threw her head back in an artless simulation of ecstasy. Then she suddenly looked at him and asked, "You got anything special I should know about?"

"Just a fuck," he said and was surprised at the sharp edge to his voice.

"Okay." She resumed her sultry expression and ran her hands up to caress her tits through the bra. "Nice, hull? They say my body drives them really crazy."

"Please," he said. "I just want a fuck."

She dropped her hands and then quickly reached behind and undid the bra.

"A rabbit, huh?"

He felt himself swell with sudden anger. Was it any wonder so many whores got slugged in the mouth by their clients? Was it a wonder so many whores turned to other women? It was a vicious, disgusting circle.

She walked over to the bed, wearing just her sheer panties. She smiled at him and resumed her seductive look.

George leaned up on one elbow. With the other hand, he reached out, hooked his forefinger around the elastic waistband and pulled the panties forward to reveal the triangular patch of black pubic hair. The red hair was dyed. He should have known. He released the elastic and the panties snapped around her waist. 'Take them off," he said.

"Sure, honey. What do you want? You want me to sit on it or what?"

"Sure, sit on it." George felt his interest in the woman rapidly fading away. He concentrated on the ache in his loins, forced himself to think of her cunt as the next best thing to jacking off.

She crawled onto the bed and put her hands around his jockey shorts. He lifted his ass so she could slip the shorts off his body.

When his cock broke free from the constraining shorts, she rocked back onto her knees said, "Oh, honey, that's a good-looking pecker!"

George felt revulsion deep within his stomach. AH whores pretend ecstasy, to convince the man they are with that he is the best damn piece of ass they have ever had, that if their circumstances permitted it they would give him a free fuck. The ability of a whore to convince a man of his virility is all the difference between a good and a bad whore. It has almost nothing to do with their cunts. George, however, was unaware of such things. He knew only that the practiced look and manner of the girl was revolting to him. And his reaction to her as a person began to interfere with his determination to think of her as just as cunt.

"Oh, baby, baby, baby," she cooed and took his rod into her hand. He jerked his head to one side as if in sudden pain. His prick, seconds before demanding release on any terms, went completely soft in the whore's rough hand.

The whore began to shake it in an attempt to spring h back into life.

"Forget it," he said. 'I'm sorry."

She shrugged her shoulders and got off the bed. "Nothing to worry about, honey," she said. "Happens to the best of them."

"Oh?" he muttered. He didn't believe her.

"Sure," she replied matter-of-factly. "Lots of guys got too many hang-ups to make it with a professional lady like me."

She had put on her panties and bra and was In the process of stepping into her dress. She looked at him as he lay on his back staring at her. "Hey, honey, don't worry about it Really, It's no big thing. Too bad, though. Your cock is a big thing."

She turned towards the door. He continued to stare at her in disbelief. She smiled, "Wait till I tell my girl friend Rita about the one that got away. Bye bye."

Alone in the room again, George rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into die pillow. He had failed miserably. The girl had merely been the legendary good-hearted whore who had tried to make him feel good. He imagined her with her girlfriend Rita having a good laugh about the guy who gave her twenty dollars to prove he was a man and then flunked the test. George gulped. For one terrible moment he thought he was going to lose even more of his manhood by bursting into tears. What kind of a man, was he?

George's attention was diverted. His rod had stiffened again and was pushing into the space between his stomach and the mattress. He rolled onto his back and the erected member swung up and lay twitching along his stomach, reaching to his navel.

"You son of a bitch," he murmured out loud as if the cock had a life of its own. "You win."

Then he got off the bed and quickly got dressed.