“Fuck, this is a good piece of ass,” the john exclaimed, grinding into him enthusiastically, digging his fingers into Arden’s muscled flesh. The john didn’t know that his mother had loved Shakespeare or that he was writing a memoir or that he separated his food on his plate so that nothing touched. That whenever he walked outside, he’d look up at the sky and crinkle his nose and wait to see if he might sneeze, which he did more often than not, always followed by a polite, “excuse me.”
He didn’t even know Arden’s real name.
“You enjoying this, you little cock slut?”
Arden groaned and rested his sweaty forehead against my shoulder. I felt every jolt, every invasion of that clumsy, anonymous cock as it bullied its way inside him. Our sweat mingled as did our breath while Arden braced for every artless lunge.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said to him, bitter that he’d made me an accomplice to his debasement, albeit a willing one.
“Yes, I did,” Arden grunted.
“I’m gonna blow,” the john warned unnecessarily. I reached down to find Arden only half hard.
“You want me to—”
“No.”
The john jerked forward, trapping Arden’s hips under his big hands. His shoulders shivered like a horse’s withers as he spent into the condom. Arden took the force of his impact, even as the john fell with his full weight onto his back. He reeked of stale beer and sour sweat and cheap, motel sex. I wanted him gone.
“Shit, that was good.” The john grabbed Arden’s dick and squeezed. “Did you?”
“Yeah,” Arden lied.
My prick was hard and aching and confused. I hadn’t wanted to watch a stranger fuck him, but I was aroused by it all the same.
The john, now flaccid, tied off the condom and lumbered over to the bathroom to trash it. Arden gingerly untangled himself from my sweaty embrace and started to dress. I followed his lead, taking care of my own condom as well.
“Feel free to take the second bed,” the john said. “There’s a continental breakfast. I’ll be out of here early in the morning.”
“That’s all right, sweetie,” Arden said, slipping back into his saucy rent boy persona. “I got more work to do tonight.”
The john glared at me like I was a monster. “You should give him the night off, after that.”
I was dumbstruck as to what to say. How many johns did Arden typically service in one night when he’d been working the street? And what about nowadays, with his benefactor and his clients?
“Can I get your number?” the john asked.
“How about I take yours?”
They made the exchange, and I guided an unsteady Arden out to the car. It was colder now, and he started shivering in the passenger seat. I turned up the heat and made him wear my flannel along with the jacket. I needed a cigarette. Arden probably did too.
“How long did that go on?” I asked him.
“Awhile,” he said vaguely.
“Did you have a pimp then?”
Arden shifted in his seat. He looked withdrawn, eyes dull. “Off and on. I needed one sometimes, when I was too wasted to remember to collect the money.”
My rage at how he’d been treated—might still be treated—was a dangerous thing.
“Men still fucked you, knowing you weren’t really there?”
Arden shrugged. “I’m a commodity.”
A commodity, present tense.
“Do you like being treated that way?” I was trying to understand what motivated him. Was it only the money? A cheap thrill? Anonymous sex?
