Shuck by Daniel Allen Cox Page B

B.
    â€œYou need a massage,” I said.
    I stretched Phil out on the floor and gave him what was probably the best workout of his life, a beating of the touchy-feely prescription.
    He groaned an internal gush and went kind of limp.
    â€œ Playguy ,” I said. “Then Honcho , Mandate , Inches . Your timetable.”

    â€œOoohhhhhhh fuck, that’s good.”
    Some judo chops in his most brutally tender spots, the shoulder blades and kidneys. I worked past his softness and into bone.
    â€œI have some creative ideas about how I’d like to pose.”
    â€œWe’ll have to see about that. When can you massage me next?”
    â€œI’m not even finished and you’re already talking about the next time?”
    â€œIt’s just ...”
    â€œYeah, I know.”
    Saw it all the time. The hands of the young are murder on men in their thirties.
    â€œI want to be in Black Inches ,” I said.
    â€œDon’t push it,” Phil said. “We’ll see.”

    I had to buy a better pager because business was picking up and it was rattling the life out of my old one. I upgraded to a transparent blue model with hip holster and Talking Heads ring tones. Cellphones are a turn-off to older guys who expect a more destitute hustler. I can’t disappoint. Image is everything.
    The pager either buzzes with numbers I know, with numbers I don’t, or with codes I’ve given out but forget what they mean. Mixing up the codes is a dangerous business.
    Here are some of them and the transactions they stand for:
    0066—We meet at the Hilton Hotel at 9:30. You bring condoms, lube, vodka, cranberry juice, menthol cigarettes, coke, and $400 cash. I do as much blow as you like, suck you off, and fuck you. We watch infomercials all night and have a generally icy time. You toss in
a fifty-dollar tip if I know where you work and how much you make.
    0099—You can already see the confusion these numbers lead to. You need me to look pretty at a party with you. I gussy up your arm, make it look younger. I’m disinclined to say “arm candy” because I’m slightly hairy and not as Hollywood as the expression implies. We’re a hot date and everyone knows it. Two hundred dollars is fine. No kissing.
    0020—This one can vary. Either you want a blowjob in your car and I have to call you for the coordinates, or you want to fuck in a club bathroom. I get sketched out by 0020s, so I don’t answer them unless I’m really hard up, which is more often than I care to admit.
    0013—All I’m going to say is you’d better be fucking rich, gentle, and have no kids of your own. If you have a camera in the vicinity and I find it, I crack it over your head.
    0052—Phil needs a massage, the darling. How could I say no?

    Jaeven Marshall, twenty-two.
    Here’s my product description, the spin I have to believe in order to sell myself effectively.
    Here’s the press release.
    Slacker hair and black bangs long enough to have fuck-you cachet. No pimples. I smell great. I climbed out of the puberty swamp a victor, with hormones riding that ideal balance. I’ve got blue eyes that you can stare through into oblivion, and a pierced lip so red you think it’s bleeding.
    This is what I have to shill.
    Snake-bitten nipples, chewed on and spritzed with lemon juice.
I’ve had to swear on a New World Translation Bible that I don’t rouge them up. A fire-chain tattoo circles my waist, a touch of glam just above the field of play.
    Body hair—now here’s where I’ve got all the niches covered. I’m so bushy in places and hairless in others that I can’t help but offer the best of both worlds.
    I’ve got pit-hawks under each arm, long four-inchers you can bury your nose in, and a spray of pubes that frame a pretty spectacular area. I’ve got a good face of stubble, and a treasure trail running from my belly to ... oh, I’ll tell you