story code: M/M



Calling All Cars
by Charles George Taylor


Richard was arrested by the police for shredding Robert’s clothing with a pair of scissors.

"Fuck around on me? I’ll show you," Richard thought while doing the deed on some
expensive duds.

"Get out of my apartment," demanded Robert as he dialed 911.

The police came.

"But I pay all the rent, I ain’t going nowhere. Besides, I bought all the clothing that I
shredded," informed Richard.

"Just leave for the evening," pleaded the police.

"Fuck that, I ain’t going anywhere. Do you even know the situation here? We are lovers, we
have sex together and we’ve done so for six years now. You can’t make me leave like that.
Make him leave, he’s the one having the affair," insisted Richard.

Robert, a gay guy in denial and the police stood there with their mouths wide open. They
reminded Richard of a trio of blow up sex dolls.

The police cuffed Richard and whisked his ass away to the precinct. A night in the pound
changed Richard and revenge was sweet. The central booking station in downtown
Manhattan is frightening. Drug dealers share space with crazy homeless individuals,
businessmen who beat their wives and those who graffiti subway platforms with stickers
promoting new music CDs.

Richard was frightened and couldn’t believe how his ass ended up there and now he was
waiting to see a judge with the rest of bi-polar society.

Two cute Latino guys flashed a plastic bag with what appeared to be small white and
yellow pills inside to capture Richard’s attention. He made his way over to the two thugs.

"Want one of these?" asked a ruggedly handsome man with a heavy Spanish
accent.

"How much?" asked Richard.

"Sixty."

Richard thought the pill would relax him like a Vicadin. He rested somewhat peacefully in
the cell between the arms of two new lovers. The tripping trio never spoke to one another.
Richard simply allowed the men to rub their hands all over him. It felt downright blissful.

The cell was crowded with at least sixty prisoners and space was a minimum. The three
friends huddled under a cement bench towards the back of the  cell.

One of the thugs was obviously not into the sexual thrills of the drug, but Richard and the
dude with a scar on his face certainly were.

The three men had erections all night and made numerous trips to a water fountain next to
a toilet without a stall within the corridors of central booking. The trio rubbed one another in
bliss as the night passed so slowly for lonely spectators in the cell.

Richard didn’t even think of his lover, Robert, back home trying to piece together a pile of
torn clothing.


The relationship between Richard and Robert came to an abrupt end. Their separation
was made possible through the orders of a court judge. Richard was thankful that the
judge ruled down hard on his ass by issuing a restraining order.

He couldn’t return to his apartment to claim his belongings or face a cheating lover. He
could care less. He was left alone with the things in his wallet and the clothing on his back.
But he was free.

Richard resentfully went to his gym, worked out, took a shower and wondered were he
would spend his first night after being released from prison and a played out ex-lover.
He stopped to eat dinner at a café on Christopher Street where one could still sit, sip coffee
and puff away on a pack of Newports.

Richard headed off to 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue where a porn shop played host to
one of the most fabulous features of modern Gay America– Buddy Boot. With the concept of
the now extinct telephone booth, Buddy Booths are used for convenient conversations of
sorts with those we lust. Plexiglass separates ‘private booths’ where with a dollar placed in
a hungry slot, one has the power to lift the screens to the left and right. The most
important feature of the booth does not work unless one’s buddy shoves a dollar
bill into the hungry vending machine as well. Not only does the dollar grant one viewing
rights, but ninety-nine stations of porn are available. It’s like having the Weather Channel
on a Jet Blue flight.

In minute lovers each press a green button, the curtain rises and one has a few brief
moments, a dollar’s worth, to advertise deviant sexual acts .

Seduction is not as easy as it may sound. A buddy may not really know who is next door.
Porn watchers sometimes take a chance by pressing a green button and it’s anyone’s
guess of what will show up when the curtain rises.

If a buddy does not do enough to seduce his neighbor, the curtain may come slamming
down with the simple press of a red button. Middle Eastern men who run the joint allow for
a three inch slot at the base of the plexiglass where one can breathe if necessary.

Richard stood outside the booths being cruised up and down like a wedding gown waiting
for purchase by a blushing bride.

"Which one of you has a nice apartment in Chelsea?" he asked himself as if standing in a
candy store.

Richard needed a place to bed for the night. His lover had him arrested with restraining
order and he had no home. Richard went into a booth. He heard sissies fighting in the
hallway as they rushed to grab the booths next to his.

In went a dollar bill and he pushed both green buttons waiting for either neighbor to take
the bait. Both shades rose immediately and simultaneously. Richard dropped his pants
and had two offers for free bedding that evening.

In hushed tones, both buddy neighbors asked, "Hey dude, wanna come to my
place?"

Richard, exhausted from a night of popping Ecstacy in prison, reached down and grabbed
the lure of a Black man with dread locks.

"Take me home, Daddy," he whispered as the time ran out and the curtain came winding
down in a Time Square porn shop. The couple who met in a buddy booth at a Time Square
porn shop met again out on the streets of Manhattan.

Richard always hated having to act street just to fulfill the image of his masculine body with
a phat round bootie. But in New York City, where bottoms outnumber tops twenty to one,
one cannot let loose and become a flaming faggot when trying to find a roof over one’s
head and a nice stiff rod to cuddle up to.

All gay men like butch boys, very few are attracted to sissies like the ones found on Queer
Eye For The Straight Guy.

"So, sup?" asked Richard in a deep masculine tone.

The Black man laughed hysterically.

"Sup wit you? I live in Harlem. Wanna come to my place and let me nail dat ass?"

Richard thought for a second and replied, "Aight!"

Then out of the blue, without intention, Richard claimed, "I’m hustlin’ man. I need a place to
stay and $200."

"But of course," said the handsome Black man with a bright smile and twinkle
in his eye.

The two didn’t speak on the subway ride to Harlem. Each fantasized as both passion and
potential danger lurked in the air. Richard never believed the Black man would give him
$200 while riding the train on the way to Harlem to finish off what was started in a buddy
booth.

"I’ll be lucky if he and a group of his friends don’t gang rape me," he thought.

But the odd pair walked into a cozy apartment in Harlem without incident. Photography
equipment was all over the place. Cameras and backdrops cluttered the apartment and
empty bottles of Old English beer were in abundance.

The Black man handed Richard $200 from a wad of twenties lying carelessly on a coffee
table. Shawn, the photographer and his new best friend drew him a bath.

Richard soaked his cares away. "God really does take care of fools," he thought to himself
while scooping up a handful of bubbles while listening to Sade album on the stereo.

The two new buddies who met in a booth drank coffee, smoked some bud and looked over
a pile of black and white photographs. Richard forgot about the $200 and asked the man if
he would mind shooting a few artistic nude shots.

"You have to pay for the film," replied Shawn. "It’s $100 a roll."

"I’ll buy two rolls worth," said Richard as he bent over and spread his
cheeks.

"Capture this image. It will live forever."

Shawn the photographer put down his camera and reached out for the bundle of
joy.

"Hands off! Let’s be professionals," insisted Richard as the crack in his ass smiled
gleefully for the camera as the shutter clicked almost nonstop
until the sun came up in Harlem.

Morning arose and Richard felt horrible. He needed coffee immediately. Then he
remembered where he was– at the home of a buddy he bumped into in Times Square.

It all started to come back now– the nude photo shoot under the lense of a mysterious
photographer Shawn, a stranger he met in a porn shop in Times Square.

During the sexual escapade at Shawn’s place in Harlem, the photographer took off his
clothes off too and handed the expensive camera to Richard to play ‘top’ for a while.

Richard started to snap out of his manic behavior while the shutter on the lens fluttered
away. "You have no home bitch, what are you doing here?" he asked himself while taking
close-ups of Shawn’s torso.

Shawn was absolutely gorgeous, especially while standing in front of a large sheet of
heavy white paper -- professional high quality back-drop paper, a cardboard like medium
that rolls down like a buddy booth shade on 42nd Street.

Shawn had all the fancy photographer gadgets in addition to a professional back-drop. He
used Captain Kirk like electronic devices to test for perfect light intensities. Strobe lights
added pizzaz to the love making and Richard felt no less than a porn star while being
photographed.

"What do you do for a living?" asked Richard while laying on his back and pulling his legs
up over his head to expose what so many men had come to worship.

"I’m a photographer. I make my living through pornography, but I have dreams of becoming
a real artist," explained Shawn.

"Can you make me a star," asked Richard.

"You are so much more than a porn star, sexy! But if that’s what you want. Go sit on the
white sofa by the fireplace and show me what you got," ordered the potential publisher.

"That’s the best sex I ever had," Richard remembered the next morning while looking down
at the man sleeping in the bed next to him. "I can’t wait to see the proofs on those two rolls
of film," he thought.

The photo shoot ended with a make-believe snap shot of Richard pretending he was
Marilyn Monroe with the wind blowing his trench coat up. After hours of freeze framing, the
two lovers collapsed on the white paper and fell asleep exhausted. They woke up a few
hours later and crawled over piles of clothing to a bedroom and rested for what seemed to
be an eternity on a water bed.

Shawn was still sleeping, but awoke from the stare of Richard lusting over his washboard
stomach and manhood below. Shawn’s body was like that of an African warrior-- slender,
well toned and hung to the knees. He had a beautiful set of teeth, which Richard envied.
His long braided hair reached his shoulders. He looked a lot like a painting of an Afro-
Centric Jesus.

The sex for sale game initiated on 42nd Street by Richard had blossomed into a full scale
audition for Blue Boy magazine by the time the evening’s festivities ended. The night of
playing make-believe sex games was intense.

Richard always knew he was an exhibitionist, but the sexual photo shoot, man- whore
escapade with a total stranger took Richard to imaginary heights he never imagined.

Eventually they ran out of film but the teasing two kept shooting black and white shots for
the sheer joy of posing in a sexually alluring positions. Richard knew they didn’t use a
condom but he wanted the photographer to see the image clearly.

In the morning, when reality returns, it’s a hard reaction that one faces as the
repercussions of deviant sexual acts are coupled with fantasy role playing. "Oh well, I
probably had AIDS already from that prick Robert," Richard thought while ignoring the
possibility that he could easily have contracted HIV from a one night stand.

Shawn had come inside Richard on numerous occasions and bodily fluids were
shared like weed that night.

"You know, I let you fuck me without a condom," said Richard really pissed and still in need
of coffee when Shawn opened his eyes.

"I’ll make us some Starbucks-- Yukon Blend," promised Shawn as he looked into the green
eyes of a dude he fell in love with for only a dollar and whose ass he nailed without a
rubber in front of flashing cameras.

Richard jumped into the shower and prayed that he had washed all the potential germs
away. "Oh well, at least it’s a roof over my head for now," thought Richard while gliding a
bar of Dove delicately up and down the crack of his hairy ass.

"Did I only imagine that wad of twenties on the coffee table last night?" Richard asked
himself. "This guy is loaded. He must have a lot of connections in the industry. I’m keeping
him," thought Richard, the victim who two nights ago was arrested by the police and issued
a restraining order demanding that he not pass within 500 yards of Robert, his cheating
ex-lover from Hell.

Richard walked back into the bedroom and asked the stranger to put it inside one more
time, while still dripping wet, from a morning shower in Harlem.

"What’s your story," asked Shawn, somewhat genuine in his compassionate question,
while Richard mounted the rock hard artist for the third time.

"Relationship issues, I’ve been put out," explained Richard while reaching for his jeans,
most certain that the stranger Shawn would ask him to leave based on his unfortunate, but
all too common predicament.

"You can stay here if you want," offered Shawn.

"What do you do for a living?" asked Shawn as if shopping for a new lover.

"I’m a writer of sorts. Odds and ends jobs, but a lot of writing. I hate writing, it’s a curse. It
has always paid the bills but it’s really a curse," explained Richard while studying all the
high tech photography equipment in the apartment. "My writing cost me my last
relationship," explained Richard. "I’d rather be a porn star."

"What do you mean?"

"Shut up and relax. It’s none of your business," demanded Richard as he squeezed his
buttocks and used his secret muscles within to trap yet another husband.

"Damn boy, you are fine!" shouted Shawn still stunned by the sheer strength of Richard’s
inner-self.

Richard didn’t believe him, grabbed his clothing and let the $200 he had earned lay on the
coffee table. Shawn grabbed his appointment book and made a note while watching
Richard round the corer of St. Nicholas Avenue and 145th Street in Harlem, out of his view.

"Met a cute white boy with personality and nice ass. Freckles on his back may expose well.
Use glossy paper when developing negatives. Claims his name is Richard."







For more info about Charles, please visit his blog www.charlesgeorgetaylor.blogspot.com
Calling All Cars
©2006 by Charles George Taylor
All Rights Reserved