I worked nights hauling crates at a warehouse that smelled of raccoon piss and discarded dreams of men who failed to live up to theirdizzyinghigh school heights. My boss was a right prick as well. He called meTrash.
Most people did. Said it with a sneer, like it fit better than ‘Eddy’.
I had stopped correcting him. Embraced it. I started to really enjoy the new persona and confidence it gave me.
Trashwore ripped jeans and faded yellow band t-shirts.Trashcarried a Walkman with a copy of‘You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)by Sylvester on cassette.Trashkissed boys in the alley behind the bins, even let them fuck him for some extra cash, but he never once called it love.
Not even withhim.
Mark.
Mark was my first and last boyfriend. He had a job in the army and was awaiting his deployment. He smoked, wore leather-scented cologne and called me ‘Eds’ when we were alone, and ‘Mate’ when we weren’t.
He said our arrangement was meaningless, and just a way to get out both of our frustrations. He said I should be grateful he didn’t discard me like the trash I was.
He liked it rough. He liked me quiet and always naked, ass up, face down. He liked to see my ass when he walked in. And well, I mean, who wouldn’t; itisa great ass. Trash worked hard to get it right for his tops. But Mark didn’t care about the effort. All that mattered to him was whether I was ready for him whenever he wanted. I was never to look at him while he was inside me, or even whimper. I was his hole to breed.
Afterward, he’d shower and mutter, “You don’t get clingy, or anything, OK?” and then he’d vanish into the night with wet hair and a satisfied grin on his face.
Mark was also straight.So he said. The only thing straight about him was his cock when it was inside me.
He left with no trace of me left on him, and he left me lying there with his scent and cum still in me. He went back home to the poor girl who he intended on marrying. I knew heras well. We would chat at the service station from time to time. Mark never knew. Like an unspoken rule, I never asked him about her. He never brought her up.
Every time he left, he said it was the last time.
And every time, he came back for more.
And me? I let him. OfcourseI did.
I was a slut. A broke, desperate, bottom-bin-of-a-boy who thought being wanted, even if like this, was better than having no one.
Mark had a fat, rigid dick. Knew how to use it too. And, I was a willing hole that needed to feel something. Anything.
Even if that thing was the expanding erection of Mark as he came inside of me. Because in that brief moment, I belonged to someone.Meantsomething to someone.
I wasn’t dumb. I knew I was a joke to most men. A secret shame of theirs. A problem to be hidden and stay that way. But Mark was routine. A comfort, in the worst kind of way.
He also had a temper, and I knew this when getting into the car that sunny Thursday afternoon. It was also the hottest day on record, so I was wearing very little. A simple singlet, with the top of my chest exposed, with a thin overshirt and cutoff jean shorts.
I heard his car pull up, and the familiar twitching in my hole occurred. I was expecting to have my apartment buzzer go off when, down the street, he honked his car. Like he owned me.
And let’s face it. He did.
I looked out the window, and there he was. Leaning his back on his car, aviators covered eyes. His chest glistened in the sun and dripped with sweat from the heat. Even from my window, I could see his tight muscles and his bulge begging to be let free from his shorts.
The window to the driver’s seat was down. He snaked his arm in and honked again, and I got the message loud and clear.I forgot to lock the door as I rushed out of my apartment, but I didn’t care. This was one of the rare occasions where Mark was treating me like a person and not his personal sperm bank.
Though if I were a sperm bank, my retention rate would be very low. Especially after Mark was finished with me. Yes, that was a gaping-hole joke. You may laugh.
As I reached him on the street, he flicked his aviators down the bridge of his nose and inspected what I was wearing. He smirked and then winked, only to put his aviators back on.
Why was he being so kind today?
He cocked his head, and I climbed into his Jeep.
No seatbelt. Andneverany small talk.
After an hour of driving, we arrived at the reservoir on the edge of town. I had heard stories from the guys I let do me for a twenty behind my work. It was a local beat for all the down-low ‘straight’ men to take their secret shame bottoms. It’s a bit of a dangerous area with jagged rocks and snakes, so Mark gave me his worker boots. Steel capped. It was gross and made me feel warmer, but better than being hurt. It made my heart flicker even just for a moment that he cared enough to bring me a pair. He had put on his own set as well.
