Cruising Cruise

I leaned into the dressing table mirror at Manny's, the male-only club attached to the back of the Manhattan Men Male Strip Club on North Albany Avenue inland from Atlantic City, New Jersey. I was naked, having come off the pole on stage that way. My face and torso were splattered with small particles of gold metallic flakes, which were designed to catch the light while on stage and enhance the view of my body, but which were a bear to get off after the performance. But they gave me the impression of being clothed, so I didn't rush to get myself covered.

Delmonte, one of the other dancers, came into the dressing room and came in close behind me, his big, black hands settling down on my shoulders and then slowly gliding down my chest, flicking off gold flakes as he went. I sighed and leaned back into him, as he buried his face into the hollow of my neck and we melded into each other.

There were a variety of male dancers at Manny's. There were T-girls who did specialty shows of their own—mostly on different nights from when I danced there. There were tops like the black bull, Delmonte Taggert, who gave submissive patrons a thrill upon payment of a fee. And then there were a range of smaller-bodied, submissives, like me, who appealed to the dominant patrons. Some of us, like me, were all-American, very fit-bodied blonds. Others were more effeminate and limp wristed. We mixed and matched, performing sex acts with each other on stage as well as dancing the poles in solo performances. Somehow we managed to take care of most of the fetishes our patrons came in with.

Delmonte and I were a popular pair—a muscular, dominant black bull on a smaller, trimmer, submissive blond. Delmonte fucked me on stage and he fucked me wherever else he wanted to.

He lifted his head and we looked at each other in the mirror.

"There are three guys from the last set who are at the stage door. They want to take us both out."

"They look OK to you?" I asked.

"They're service types—military, it looks like. Good bodies. One's in his twenties and two maybe late thirties or early forties. The two seem to be showing the ropes to the younger guy. They flashed big wads. They're good with two-fifty each plus dinner and drinks, a hundred each in chips at a casino, and the room."

"I couldn't go beyond 2:00 a.m. I need to be home before 3:00."

"That should be doable. You said you needed some cash. This is what's on offer tonight."

"OK. Did they mention where?"

"The Hard Rock Café at S. Pennsylvania and the Boardwalk, on the ocean. You've got wheels, don't you? You could drive."

"Sure. You can tell them we'll meet them there."

"I already did. If you wouldn't go, I was going to give it to Sean."

"Fuck you."

"Yes, please," he murmured, his face burying itself into my throat again and his hand gliding down, encasing my cock, and stroking. Sighing, I leaned back into him and let him have his way with me.

* * * *

The men's names were Steve, Jack, and Pete. Delmonte had been right. They were sailors—ammunition carriers—from the Naval Weapons Station in Monmouth, out on furlough after what they described as a long captivity, and they were horny as hell. They all had the muscles to prove they spent their time hauling heavy ammunition. Steve and Jack, big burly, thuggish, and, I thought, sexy as hell—because I liked them unpolished, cocky with the right to be so, and sex hungry—were experienced in this. The younger one, Pete, obviously was along for the education. I got the definite impression that whatever Steve and Jack planned for Delmonte and me, they planned to finish by fucking Pete. He was a pretty boy in contrast to them.

I did wonder if Pete realized that plan.

They spotted Delmonte and me dinner at the hotel casino's signature Hard Rock Café and we then went to the gambling floor. Steve and Jack were all over me. I was wearing black satin trousers and a tight, black mesh athletic T that showed my cut torso off well. Delmonte, who dressed in baggy clothes—with an athletic T that sagged off his bulging pecs—that almost challenged others to doubt he had the magnificent chocolate body all of us knew he had, instinctively knew that his assignment was to prepare Pete, so he was hands on with the young sailor, who was totally lost to him.

Delmonte and I each were given a hundred dollars in chips and we were good enough to remain even for the two hours we played the slots. The sailors were on leave and celebrating. They lost big. Delmonte made sure they'd handed over the seven-fifty each to him and me beforehand, though, so we didn't care much what they lost afterward. As long as they were playing and losing, the drinks were on the house. So, the three of them were three-sheets to the wind when we all stumbled upstairs to the hotel room they'd booked.

Delmonte and I weren't drunk, though.

The bed was big, which was a good thing, because all five of us fucked on it at once. I lay on my back, legs bent and spread, while, one after the other, Steve and Jack knelt between my thighs and fucked me. I did more work with Steve than with Jack. With Steve I had to lift my pelvis to his need, hook my knees on his hips, clutch his biceps, and rock my hips, fucking myself on his buried shaft. I started doing the same with Jack, but he wanted full control. He slapped me a couple of times to make me bend to his will, put my ankles on his shoulders, palmed my lower back to raise my hips with one hand, and put a chokehold on my throat with the other to hold me in full control. Then he banged the hell out of me.

While Steve and Jack tag teamed me, Delmonte had Pete bend over the bed and he fucked him interminably in a doggy fuck. Steve and Jack weren't finished with me. They sandwiched me between them, Steve on his back and me riding him, facing his head, in a cowboy, and with Jack saddling up behind me, penetrating, and the two doubling me.

I had told the guys when I had to leave by, so they weren't surprised when I pulled out of the pile and went to take a shower. When I came back, all three—Steve, Jack, and Delmonte—were showing Pete what could be done three guys on one and were teaching him new and interesting positions.

If Pete didn't know the plans his buddies had for him before, he certainly knew now.

I drove north, catching route 87, Atlantic Brigantine Boulevard, and then toward the ocean into Brigantine Beach on Harbour Beach Boulevard and to the marina on West Shore Drive, where I lived with "Uncle" Carl, who wasn't really my uncle, and where Carl kept the charter fishing boat he leased and was saving up to buy. We lived in an apartment above a tackle shop at the marina.

I helped Carl—Carl Wheaton—when I could with the charter boat and I would have liked to be able to do it more. I loved working on the boat and sailing out to sea on it. And I loved Carl too. He'd pulled me out from underneath a bridge where I'd been hoboing it, having left a terrible family situation. We told everyone he was my uncle and was raising me, but that was just to keep them from looking closer at our situation. He knew I'd started working in Atlantic City since leaving high school and getting ready to go to the community college he was insisting I go to "to make something of myself." He didn't know I also was stripping. He thought I was waiting tables. I was. But I also was dancing on tables and stripping on them, but he didn't know that, or need to know that.

I'm sure he knew I was having sex with men. He was tolerant about that, but, again, I don't think he realized I was taking tricks for money. I wasn't doing that for myself. He was saving to own the boat he leased so he could be fully in business. He didn't know that I was saving to chip in on buying the boat as well. I loved going to sea. I didn't need to go to community college to do what I wanted to do—to work with Carl in a charter fishing boat business.

The lights were out in the apartment when I got home before 3:00 a.m. I knew they would be. Carl had a charter to take out in five more hours. Sleep or no sleep, I wanted to be there to go out to sea with him. I never felt more alive than on the fishing vessel out in the Atlantic.

I wasn't going to get a lot of sleep, I realized, as I stripped and slipped into bed. With a low grunt, Carl turned to me, moved a strong, muscular arm over me, and pulled me to him. He turned me on my side, nestling me into his mature, muscular body. He was naked and in erection, his shaft pressed against the small of my back.

I whispered, "Oh, fuck, yes," as a hand came around, fanned out on my lower belly, and pressed up, rolling my buttocks up. I reached around, grasped his cock, and put in in position. With a half dozing sigh from him and a gasp from me, he penetrated. He maintained the pressure on my belly, coordinating the rhythm of pressing me up and back with the deep thrusts of his cock. His other arm came around and went to my throat, arching my back and pulling my head into his chest.

I lay there, totally in his embrace, fully possessed by his moving cock, panting and moaning low. Once I had fallen into the cadence he'd set with the hand on my belly of rocking against his moving cock inside me, his hand moved down, encased my cock, and he stroked me to a completion. His ejaculation came in several small jerks and strong flows. He breeded me three times. I shuddered and emitted a gasp of pleasure with each breeding flow. When he was drained, he gave a low grunt and I felt him relax. My mind went to the sensation of him going flaccid inside me. Throughout he hadn't been fully awake.

I slowly drifted off to sleep, purring. Three men had fucked me today before this, but only now had I been fully sexually satisfied.

* * * *

"You really like working on a boat on the ocean, don't you," Delmonte asked. "You really light up when you talk about it."

We were backstage at Manny's, waiting to go on and dance our hearts out and our bodies naked, and when Delmonte had asked if this was what I was going to do all summer, I told him about what else I was doing—going out on a charter fishing boat from Brigantine Beach. I didn't mention "Uncle" Carl. I hadn't told anyone else at the theater about the charter boat service and only mentioned it to Delmonte because he said he had signed up to work a cruise in the Caribbean out of Key West, Florida.

"It pays well—really, really well, if you include the tips. It's a gay men's cruise going around to various islands and laying on the gay nightlife before cruising away to the next island. For the countries that repress gays, we put the word out we're hovering in international waters off their coast, and guys come out to us to party. Each cruise they hire some young guys like me to entertain at night and to hang around by the pool and elsewhere during the day and give the men on the cruise whatever they're willing to pay for. The guy keeps half of whatever he makes this way under the table, plus he's paid a regular contracted fee on the books for the stage entertainment. I did it a couple of summers ago, and the talent booker, Tony Castilain, just contacted me again. He's booking guys."

"Wow, that really sounds like something different. And you say you made a lot of money from that?"

"Yep, two fourteen-day cruises, six weeks employment altogether, and, if I remember right, I came away with about fifteen grand. Tony is coming by tomorrow night to see if I have anyone I can recommend to audition for him. You interested? You'd be terrific, and it's obvious you like sea cruising."

What I did with Carl wasn't exactly sea cruising—and not at all like Delmonte was talking about—and six weeks. That was a long time to be away. Carl would have to find someone else to help him. On the other hand, fifteen grand. I'd saved up two. Carl needed maybe thirty thousand as a down payment to take over the charter boat and start on his own fully owned business. I wondered how much of that he'd saved already. Maybe if I did this cruise thing, Carl's—and my—dream could get a kick start. Just six weeks of work.

Work on my back, though. But what was it I was doing here, now? I wasn't making money from the dancing at Manny's. I was making money from the occasional hookup from being seen dancing at Manny's.

Tony Castilain was my vision of what a man doing what he was doing—procuring male whores for a floating brothel—would be like. He was roly-poly, loud, bald, ugly enough to be attracting, garishly dressed, and with multiple large-stone rings on both hands to reflect the overhead lighting as he gestured broadly of the great things he'd heard about me from Delmonte and of the great things he could do for me if I passed his audition. He'd be tolerable enough in a doggy fuck, where I didn't have to look into his face. He was assuming I wanted the job and, despite being put off by him personally, the more he told me about the arrangement, the more I did want the job.

The audition started on familiar territory—in Castilain's room in the Ceasar's Atlantic City casino hotel room, on the bed, with Delmonte fucking me in one of the routines we used on the stage at Manny's. Half way through, though, Castilain, who had been standing off to the side, stroking a not-long, but beer-can thick cock, pushed Delmonte aside. He was more into the buildup than the final liftoff, though. With Delmonte holding me down, Manny fucked me with his ring-studded hand to the sphincter rim, with four fingers, declaring all of the time that he was going to fist fuck me. I bore with that, giving him the sounds he wanted to hear, and he eventually backed away from that form of fuck, mounted me in a missionary position, and fucked me to his completion. I didn't get the doggy position I would have preferred, but I managed.

I must have passed the audition, because he offered me a contract for two summer voyages, with the sole proviso that "You, have to pass muster with Mr. Michelson too."

It turned out that Sten Michelson, usually resident in L.A., and able to make millions there, also had a place on Key West, and he was the one to put together the gay male cruises in the Caribbean.

"We'll pay to send you down to Key West to be interviewed by Mr. Michelson," Tony said. "He has last say on the crew for his cruises."

* * * *

Still panting heavily, I let my buttocks sink back down on the bed. I was on my back, legs splayed and bent, feet flat on the mattress. I brushed the pillow off my face. In the final throes of the fuck, Michelson had pulled the pillow over my head, lifting and forcing it down rhythmically, controlling my breath, making me gasp and gag and suck in air as possible, taking my mind off the shaft punishing me deep in my core, and making me worry that snuff was his idea of a good fuck. He obviously wanted me to know that, if he hired me, my life was his.

I looked over at the sliding glass doors out onto the balcony of his apartment overlooking Mallory Square, the docks area of Key West, and beyond his heavy, somewhat gross, but completely unapologetically body leaning into the doorframe, to where I could see the cruise liner,

The King Neptune

, one of Royal Caribbean's smallest, charter fleet of cruise vessels, anchored in the Caribbean off the shore. Michelson was a huge man. He was old, probably in his late forties or early fifties. And he was hirsute, curls of salt-and-pepper hair swirling everywhere, and fat, rotund, with two rolls of well-fed and highly liquored belly fat, but he was also strong and muscular. He was huge everywhere, including having an enormously thick and long cock, now quickly in full erection again, as he stroked it up with one hand for another go at me and smoked a cigarette with the other and watched me on the bed, struggling to regain my breath. He wasn't the least bit self-conscious that he was a gross older man manhandling a young, movie star-handsome blond.

As if he could guess what I was thinking, he said. "There will be many old, out-of-shape men on board this pleasure cruise expecting pleasure from the young men I hire for the job you seek. You will have to give them what they want for what they are paying. Do you want to withdraw your application?"

"I like older men just fine. Come back to bed. Fuck me again," I murmured.

"What was that you said?"

"Fuck me again. Screw me. You're a hung stud," I said, louder. Now that I was here, I wanted this job.

Giving a snort and a laugh, he slid the glass door open, flipped his cigarette over the balcony and strutted back to the bed. He came down onto the bed on his knees between my thighs. I raised my chest, reached down, and found his erection under the rolls of fat, but he grunted and slapped me twice, sharply across face, and when I fell back onto the bed, he grasped my wrists, forcing my arms above my head.

"There will be those who want it rough too," he growled.

I grabbed the top of the headboard and just managed to suck in air as he reached for the pillow and pressed it over my face.

He let his heavy body pin mine to the bed, additionally depriving me of air to breathe, managed to position his cock on his own, forced himself inside me, and fucked me again.

Later as I was recovering again on the bed and he'd returned to smoke at the balcony door, he said, "

The King Neptune

displaces forty tons, it can accommodate a thousand passengers, but these cruises will book only about seven hundred as most will want rooms of their own to play in as they personally want—and at the prices we demand, they can afford it. We have added X-frames and other such devices to the rooms. Ships this small don't have all of the amenities most in the Royal Caribbean fleet have, but they have what is needed to please men cruising for men. The ship is equipped with over four hundred crew—all men. Twenty of those, including you, will solely be there to entertain the passengers on the ship's stage and anywhere else the men want to fuck them.

"There's a tender boat out at the docks with a

King Neptune

sign on it. Tony Castilain is there and will have a contract for you to sign. I'm taking a shower now. Be gone when I finish there, but be back here at 11:00 tonight. You'll be spending the night in my bed."

And that was how I found out I'd passed the audition for two summer sailings of

The King Neptune

.

* * * *

My first night at sea on

The King Neptune

as it floated from Key West toward the first stop, the Bahamas, wasn't supposed to be a working evening, but Tony Castilain, who was on the ship and managing the fees for service for his assigned twenty male prostitutes and members of the crew being rented out to passengers made clear that we were on duty and available twenty-four-seven from the moment we boarded the cruise ship. And we always had to dress for the part.

Thus, I dressed in black satin—a long-sleeved shirt, open almost down to the navel, gauzy harem pants, and "hardly there" open-toed sandals on bare feet—and went to the music bar. I perched on a stool where there was a bank of them around the grand piano, where an older man was playing bygone-era ballads, and a well-built man, in white linen trousers and an Hawaiian shirt, also open almost down to the navel, sat on the stool beside me and handed me one of two tropical drinks he had arrived with. I smiled and accepted the drink.

Ever since I had helped run the lifejacket drill an hour after we'd gotten under way, men had been ogling me—and the other male prostitutes on offer. I'd stuck pretty close to Delmonte, who had done the cruises before and knew the ropes, so we were a striking pair—a relatively small, trim blond and a hunky black bull. We were easy to spot as on offer, because every guy available for a fee wore a gold metal choker with a charm hanging from it in the shape of an erect cock and a set of balls. We were to wear it at all times, only taking it off if we had some legitimate reason not to be in play. If we went on on-shore excursions, we could take the charm off the chocker but not the choker itself. I didn't intend to take it off much. I was here to maximize my profit.