Stan's Inn


"Oh, God, yes.
"Fuck. Yes.
"Fuck. Yes.
"Oh. God.
"Oh. God.
"Oh, God, I'm gonna -"

"Hey, man, pull out!" I hated when they cut it this close. Like they're playing some kind of game or something. "Get that fucking thing out of my face! 'Not in me, not on me'; that was the fucking agreement."

My client rolled himself over on the hotel bed to blow his load in the sheets, and I gathered my clothes from the floor and retired to the tiny bathroom to "freshen up", which basically meant that I got dressed while the sick bastard in the other room found something to wipe himself off with. By the time I zipped up my blue jeans and went back out, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his tightie-whities.

"You, uh," he stammered, still sweaty and panting, "you didn't, uh -"

"No, I didn't," I said, grabbing my tennis shoes from under the bed and slipping them on without untying the laces. "It'll be the full amount."

"Yeah, right, sure." The middle-aged man grabbed his wallet off the bedside table and handed me a few bills out of it. I counted the cash and slid it into my back pocket. If I had to guess, this guy was probably married with two – no, three – kids and a dog. He probably worked as a banker or something similarly boring; fucked his wife every once in a while but needed a little variety to spice things up a bit. Saw my ad on Craigslist and decided to take a shot; probably considered me his "boy toy", or maybe worse, his "bitch". My guesses were usually right. Whatever, though, as long as they follow the rules and I get my money.

"All right, thanks." I went toward the door and turned back as I grabbed the handle. "If you want to meet again, you have my number. You're cool. Just not so close next time."

"I was wearing a condom," the sleezeball said, as if nobody had ever heard of a broken rubber before.

"Doesn't matter," I replied, opening the door. "If it happens again, you're on the blacklist. You don't want to be on the blacklist."

"Yeah, okay." I turned to leave and the guy stopped me with a shout. I turned back to him. "So, uh, can I ask... how old are you?"

"You don't want to know, buddy. 'Don't ask, don't tell' kinda thing, y'know how it is."

I walked out the door and shut it closed behind me, making sure nobody was watching me leave before I swooped around the corner and grabbed my backpack from behind a trashcan. I checked my bag to make sure some hobo hadn't stolen anything out of it while I was inside, then I slung it onto my shoulders and started on the two-and-a-half mile hike home, leaving the scumhole Stan's Inn behind until the next desperate middle-aged loser emailed me.

It wouldn't be long.

It never was.