The Wages of Sin

Here’s a real life horror story for the books. Or my next book.

Let’s call my tall, lean, fuzzy, scruffy bearded paramour Bret. Bret who grew up in Jacksonville, Florida, but had the come hither drawl of a rebel boy from southern Georgia. He wooed me on the phone app Growl’r one Friday night just as I was getting out of my Element to walk over to the Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather hangout. He lived just a few blocks away in a defunct gay guesthouse gone SRO rental, so I trotted over, only to soon find myself in a pilot spin-off of “Breaking Bad.”

There with shirtless sexy Bret, sitting in his lounge chair, was pretty plain looking, balding and still dressed Chris, who was rummaging through his duffel bag when I walked in. Being my ballsy self, I nonchalantly whipped off my jeans and boots and threw my naked body on the bed, watching with curiosity what would happen next. Just then, some tranzie named Brenda showed up at the door with a little glassine envelope. Bret slipped him/her some money then proceeded to crush the stuff in an ashtray before handing it to Chris to put in the microwave.

Being the gracious host, Bret asked if I wanted to mainline with them, but as much as I loved Arousal Heaven, I politely declined (A) because I didn’t want to be wired for sound for the next 48 hours, and (B) I wanted to make sure there was one hard cock in the room.

Their magic brew ready, Bret mainlined Chris (who I later learned had a $500 a week habit), then himself. But while Chris, looking a lot better with his clothes off, went from cloistered novice to sex animal in a New York minute, devouring my cock, Bret lay sprawled cool and collected on his lounge chair, still in his levis, his eyes not on us but on his smartphone, negotiating a buy or sell, I couldn’t tell which, with “Sal” who would be coming over soon on his Harley to weight the shit and complete the transaction.

If meth were on the commodities exchange, it would be worth more than gold.

While Chris’ mouth was quite fetching, a little birdie in me said to get the fuck out of here before there was trouble, and I and my uncummed cock bid our goodbyes as I chalked the night up as research for my next book. A buddy of mine who is a manager of a drug rehab center here in Lauderdale admonished me, rightly so, after I told him my little tale for hanging around as long as I had, warning me that if there had been a bust, I would have been pulled in as an accessory no matter my innocence.

But this wasn’t the end of Bret and me.

More tomorrow …

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