I sat next to Billy on the foot of his bed. He was like a big blob of pale flesh. His head hung.
The stranger who'd just come in and fucked us both, on our hands and knees on this same bed, had dressed and left. Billy and I remained naked. I put my around his wide, curved back and gave him a reassuring sideways hug.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Oh...," all that Billy could initially get out, as if a sigh. "He liked you better'n me," he finally explained.
"No he didn't," I said.
"He fucked you a lot longer," Billy reminded me, as if I needed reminding, his head rising.
"I don't think so."
"Yes he did. Plus he came in you."
This I couldn't deny, the stranger's load now tightly sealed deep inside me. "So?"
"And he said I love your skinny ass. He doesn't like fatties."
"That's not true. He fucked us both didn't he?"
"He did but he fucked you for a lot longer," Billy repeated. I rolled my eyes as Billy went on, seemingly close to tears: "I've been running these ads...offering my ass in the air to all takers...for months and months and months now. Then you come along and...steal the show."
I wiggled my just-used ass a little, as if to sink deeper into the mattress. "You told me that before I came along you hadn't had, in all these months, a single fucking taker."
"Oh, so you should get all the credit," Billy said resentfully.
"No. I didn't say that. All I'm sayin' is, I offered my own ass as well, two for the price of one so to speak, and right off the bat, first Friday night together, we get a taker rather than a faker, like you've been complaining about."
I added: "Did you get fucked tonight or didn't you?"
Billy nodded. But then said: "I don't consider it a proper fucking 'less the guy cums in me."
"Well he can't cum in both of us."
"No, but I'm the one run the ads. It's my apartment. My bed. My...big ass."
"So the next guy may prefer a fat ass," I reasoned. "No offense."
Billy sighed. Had I been a shrink I might have recommended anti-depressants at this point.
"Why don't you check your laptop," I recommended, "go see if anybody else is comin' over?"
Billy, with sighing reluctance, slid on bed's foot and went into his livingroom. I watched as a lamp brightened the darkness. I also watched, through the bedroom doorway, as he padded over to his kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, without offering me one.
I knew that if this nascent partnership was going to work, we had to offer customers two bottoms, a thin and a fat one, a Laurel and Hardy so to speak, the sexual thrill-ride of penetrating two asses rather than just one, moving between them, back and forth, while offering the option of releasing one's load in one or the other of us, whether out of necessity, or choice.
"You're tighter than fatty over here," tonight's customer had said just minutes earlier. "But not too tight."
I smiled at this semi-compliment, while remaining silent, even then realizing it would be best not to hurt my fellow bottom's feelings, rub it in. He was, after all, kneeling like me only inches away, to my right. I moaned is all, involuntarily, with each hard thrust.
Now a hydrated Billy returned, his limp, stumpy penis barely visible beneath the overhang of a layer of fat. I decided to take a new tack.
"Look at it this way," I smiled, "we made forty dollars. Twenty each."
Billy hissed through his teeth. "Twenty for a fuck. Forty I could live with. But," looking pointedly at me, "now I have a partner."
"It's all the market'll bear, Billy. Men are cheapskates."
"Yeah but by myself I could be making forty..."
"Yeah and how has that worked out so far?" I shot back.
Billy shrugged boulder-like shoulders, soft boulders, as he took a seat next to me again. He'd told me in his own words, more than once: "Nobody ever comes over. They're all a bunch of fakers."
"It's a Catch-22," I further suggested, as Billy looked up from his flattened, tree trunk-like thighs. "You could make forty if anybody ever came over, but nobody ever does. So, with me, guys come over but you're only making twenty."
"One guy has come over," Billy said bitterly.
"It's better'n nothing."
"Makes me feel cheap."
"Well..."
After a pause I asked: "So anymore replies to your ad or what?"
Billy's ad now featured two pics: his very plump ass in the air and now my relatively skinny one. Hardy and Laurel. We'd talked about snapping a shot of both of us in his bed but hadn't done that yet. The amended ad read: "Come fuck two asses for the "price" of one. Doors [sic] open. Just walk right in and get it on. If this ad is up we're available." The text was followed by four rose icons. Ten dollars per, though this wasn't mentioned in the ad, for obvious legal reasons.
Since I'd joined up with Billy, at my suggestion and repeated urgings (Billy was nothing if not stubborn), he'd seen a definite uptick in responses. Of course the first question for most was "how much?" Billy never mentioned money—cash. He spoke strictly in the euphemistic language of "roses." This immediately drove a lot of respondents—cheapskates—off. While the bulk of the remainder a) weren't actually serious, or b) eventually lost their nerve. This left a tiny minority who actually discussed coming over to Billy's apartment. Where do you live? What part of town? When you available?
I can be there at seven.
We'll be here.
I'll call when I'm on the way.
At which point the waiting game began. Would he show? Or, seemingly like everyone, would he get cold feet at the last minute? Was he a mere faker?
Tonight, for once, at long last, there'd been a knock at the door. Lucky 7:11 by the bedside digital clock.
"Come in!" Billy had shouted, as we scrambled to get in receiving position, hips bumping, side by side.
