Matt demurred. He was too nervous to see Garland’s stick shift.
Who wouldn’t be intimidated knowing that Garland and each of the eleven other guests had already ponied up a FIVE-HUNDRED DOLLAR cover charge? These were men of means who meant to do more than just ogle the eye candy, sip their cocktails, and nibble at the hors d’oeuvres. The cover charge got them in the door. Anything beyond gratuitous groping would cost them extra.
Matt worried whether he would be able to keep up his end of the bargain when the time came.
The parlor wherein they sat was an intimate formal space immediately left of the front hall. It had pocket doors that were thankfully open, and which offered Matt a view of the living room where the rest of his fellow GM members doted on the other guests. Laughed at their jokes. Fetched their drinks. Submitted to being petted and pinched.
Paul, the only other freshman, seemed as nervous as Matt—if not more so.
When William had told the two of them how the fundraising worked, Paul had not been happy.
“I’m no prostitute!” he had declared. Crossed his arms. Scowled. End of discussion. This from the same guy who had bottomed for two different guys at the Habana Inn. Left the first one to find a bigger dick.
Matt had not told Paul about his own Habana experiences—plural, three times—on the receiving end of Vince’s cock, twice topping. Had Paul knownthe size of Vince’s cock, he would have wanted in on the action. Had Matt known the size of that thing—before he blithely agreed to flip-fucking, he would have… Oh, who was he kidding? He would have gone through with it anyway!
“Don’t be so dramatic, dahling,” William had said to Paul. “Housewives do it all the time for major appliances or European vacations. No one considers them sex workers.”
“Housewives don’t have pricelists,” Matt had countered.
William had just finished explaining to them that as freshmen they could “accommodate” a single guest with the limited services of hand jobs (giving or receiving, $100; mutual, $200) or blowjobs (same setup, double the rates). Those rates were the minimum. GM members usually negotiated more, considering they had all their teeth, weren’t strung out, and were disease-free. They got to keep half their earnings, all of their tips. Upper-classmen were able to turn more tricks, offer more services.
William had shrugged. “The only thing you two have to do is work the party and be window dressing. Serve a few drinks. Get your asses pinched. Period. If you want to earn some money, fine. If not, that’s fine too. That just equates to more money for the rest of us.”
As if William needed money. His daddy was an executive for an oil company.
Paul had remained unconvinced even though he was the most cash strapped of them all, barely able to pay his tuition with work-study, Pell Grants, and student loans. His dad wasn’t loaded. Just the opposite.
But it wasn’t a case of Rich dad (for William), Poor dad (for Paul). It was Rich dad, Shitty dad. Paul’s dad had called him last week to inform him he might as well stay on campus for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. What kind of dad uninvited his own kid for the holidays? A Shitty one, that’s who. One who couldn’t stand the fact that his namesake, Paul Olson II, was a queer with Asperger’s syndrome.
It seemed everyone was thinking ahead to Thanksgiving. Debbie had invited Matt to spend the holiday at her house. He hadn’t yet accepted but was leaning towards doing so. His own family hadn’t returned any of his phone calls, hadn’t driven the thirty miles to see him or watch any of his games. And, if he did accept Debbie’s offer, would it be rude to ask if Paul could also join them?
As regarded the whole fundraising-by-fucking concept, Matt had not shared Paul’s high principles. The minimum for blowing a guy was $200. Matt would get to keep $100. Fifteen minutes sucking even a nasty cock seemed better than the 24 hours it would take to earn the same money by flipping burgers. He’d flipped enough burgers the previous two summers to understand that on a certain level you were gettingfucked either way.
Plus, he needed money. Bella Bottoms would be back at the Habana for New Year’s Eve. He planned to take Adam there. They would eat at Gusher’s, see Bella’s show, spend a magical night in one of the rooms. A hundred bucks should cover all of that.
Matt watched as one of the guests, a guy who looked to be in his early forties, sidled up to Paul. The guy was balding, thick around the middle. Not in the top tier appearance-wise.
Balding guy put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, leaned in, whispered in his ear.
Paul shook his head. Pushed his glasses up his nose.
William swooped in. His feather boa fluttered behind him. Asked Paul to retrieve another bottle of wine from the kitchen. Redirected balding guy’s attention to Todd. That much Matt heard clearly.
The rest was an indistinguishable purr, like when funeral directors work their way past condolences and platitudes and get down to the business end of things: that caskets aren’t free, that the dead don’t bury themselves, that “mama needs a new pair of shoes.”
Matt imagined William’s sales pitch: Todd was more experienced sucking cock. Or maybe William upsold balding guy on fucking, which freshman Paul wasn’t allowed to do, but sophomore Todd was. The old “Would you like fries with that?” suggestive selling.
Soon enough, balding guy headed upstairs with Todd, who winked at Matt as he passed.
“Ever been face fucked?” Garland asked. Just jumped to the point. No wading into the topic.
Matt’s throat went dry. He felt certain he’d just been propositioned.
“I’ve blown a few guys,” Matt said. “I’ve never been face fucked.” The truth was less impressive: he’d blown exactly one guy—Evan. It had not gone smoothly.
The grandfather clock ticked away.
Garland reached into his jacket, retrieved a small roll of cash. “Two hundred, right? Face fucking is like a blowjob, except you don’t have to do any of the work. Maybe I should be the one getting paid.” Snickered at his little joke.
