Flip Mecum

Flip prospers at Peacock until a big client appears

This is an original, fictional story. None of the persons or places is real—even if their names seem familiar. Everyone engaged in sexual activity is over 18. © 2024. All rights reserved. Brunosden I apologize for the occasional dotted line breaks in the text (which may not survive into Literotica publication). I've tried to eliminate them, but Word has its own ideas.

[Flip's looks and potential dancing have resulted in him being hired as a dancer at a gay club in Houston, owned and run by Marty Peacock. This is his first real gay public statement. He remains closeted to his sisters in Houston.]

"I do need a place to stay. I'll take the room. But I think I need to get back to my sisters tonight. And I need to come up with a good story about my new employment."

I got home late, but Beth and Amy were still up. "I spent the day making the rounds of various construction sites. It's gonna be at least two or three weeks before I hear anything. So, at the suggestion of one of the guys, I applied to be a waiter in a restaurant in Montrose. I got a job as a busboy and dishwasher. I had to start this evening, or they were going to give it to someone else. And I got lucky. One of the other waiters I met had just lost his apartment mate—probably the guy I was replacing. So I've also got a place to stay. I'm going to have to sell my truck to make the first rent payment, but the apartment is near the restaurant and I can walk." (That sounded like a reasonable story, and I was seemed reasonably sad about having to sell the truck.)

Amy was my favorite and the first to speak. "How much is the rent?"

"Two fifty a month. I gotta pay the first month in advance."

"I'll lend you that. Keep your truck. You're gonna need it when the electrician job comes through. Pay me back in a few months. This is a loan, Flip. I don't have that much to give you."

"Thanks, Sis. I really appreciate it. Now I need a shower. And I'm really exhausted." I was really excited, not at all tired, but I wanted to end our conversations before I said something I would later regret.

*******

I arrived at the club early on Thursday—I had to get out of the apartment before my sisters got home. So I moved my stuff into one of the empty "apartments" on the third floor. It was one large room, with a double bed without linens, a beat up dresser, one threadbare easy chair and one window—mostly blocked with a window air-conditioner and no view. I was going to share a bath, kitchen and TV room with the other two "apartments". I would have room mates. But it was mine.

As I was unpacking, Mr. Peacock walked in. "Welcome, Flip. I've got a few things for you." He handed me a cell. "Use this instead of your own. When I txt, you reply immediately and respond as I request. Got that?" Then he motioned me to the bed. "Take off those boots." Then he strapped a metal band around my ankle and locked it in place, pocketing the key. "This is a GPS device. I want to know where my boys are all the time. If by some chance a patron breaks the rules and takes you somewhere, I'll know it. I don't want my boys hurt."

It was pretty clear that he was going to be a very demanding and possessive boss. Sure he talked about "protecting" us, but it also meant he owned us. He was probably going to get a cut, maybe a big one, of any services that I provided off the stage.

"There aren't a lot of rules. Nobody comes up to the third floor except the residents. Not even your brother." He laughed at what I guess he thought was a joke. "No locks on the room doors. No drugs. No smoking—this is a firetrap. Keep it clean. If you eat up here, dispose of the trash immediately—there are rats in the neighborhood, and I don't mean the human kind. Linens are in the closet, and there is a weekly linen service charge."

"That's it. I've decided to put you in the second show tonight. Starts at 10. Go across the street now and ask for Tony at the barber shop. Tell him Marty sent you. Do whatever he tells you. He knows what I want and how I want my boys to look. When you're done, come back to my office and we'll go find you a costume." I thought it was interesting that he didn't ask.

I headed over to the shop. Tony motioned me to the back room and locked the door. "Strip boy. I wanna see what I'm working with." Although no barber in Hanover had ever asked me to strip, I did as I was told. "Well not much body hair. You must be an Indian with that skin color—and no tan lines. But where did the blonde hair come from? A bottle? I'm going to trim up those pubes the way Marty likes them, but I won't need to shave your legs or chest. Then I'm going to wash that hair and trim it—it's at least three inches too long. We're gonna give you a shaggy school boy look. It'll contrast nicely with that dark skin. You're gonna be a preppy surfer dude, boy. Get on the table."

Tony then used his straight razor with some precision to shape the pubes into a perfect trapezoid, every hair about an inch long. Not a hair was left on my balls or shaft. He had me flip over as he inspected the crack. "Shit. No hair here either. But, you gotta be cleaner, boy. Much cleaner if you're going to work for Marty." Then he flipped me again and used some cotton balls to bleach the pubes to match my head. It stung like hell. And when I winched with the pain, he looked in my eyes and added, "You gotta match, boy." Of course, he handled my meat while doing so and I became rigidly erect. "Are you performing tonight? They're gonna love this dick. It's a nice size. The patrons are going to love the big-dicked innocent newbie. Make sure you wash under that hood. They'll be tonguing your cockhead before the night is over."

"Yeah, I dance at 10."

"Too bad, I'd love to be one of your first. But I don't want to release your tension. You'll dance better. But I expect you to be here tomorrow at 11. I'll take my payment then. He washed and trimmed my hair, long enough to throw when I danced and barely covering my eyes, but nowhere near as long as I had worn it for years. It had never looked better. Tony was a great barber. I redressed, thanked him and headed back across the street. The bouncer was already on duty, but he recognized me and welcomed me to the Peacock stable. Curious use of the word.

Marty met me in "wardrobe." Most of the stuff was urban cowboy—button up shirts with fancy buttons or snaps (they take longer to take off), tear away jeans unlike any I had ever seen, leather chaps, some studded, all with open crotches. And a large assortment of jocks. "The jock is key. Let me see you try on a few. I'm really an expert at choosing the perfect one." He handed me a few that were all light in color (to contrast my skin tone I presume) and nearly transparent. The straps had to be perfect to frame my ass and the basket had to be big enough to hold me. We picked two and I tried on both. Of course, he was very hands-on in arranging my stuff in the pouch. "These will do. And because tonight is your first night, I want you to finish in my bed." I noted that he didn't ask. It was an order. I picked up the chosen costume, keeping my own hat, boots and rodeo belt, and stowed it all in a locker. I turned back to him wondering what was next.

Then we decided on the music—he liked a Patsy Cline chestnut. He opened his laptop which had a recording of the Houston Ballet performing to that music. It was classy, and I loved it. I watched twice, beginning to feel the movements in my body by the end of the second run through. I decided that I was going to do preppy-class-newbie and hard-to-get, maybe with some acrobatics from my gymnast years. (Later I realized that was absurd. How does a gay stripper project class and newbie?) He had watched me closely as I ingested the music. "It's time for you to go upstairs and relax—and clean yourself out. I don't expect you in the club before you dance, but the patrons will expect you to linger in the club after you dance and redress—the hat and boots are okay, but only the jock otherwise. So you'll be on the floor until 1 or 2. Someone will be here to do your makeup at about 9:30. The first show is at 9 and there's another after yours at 11. Good luck, Flip. You're going to be great." Then he pulled me into a tight embrace. He was hard, really hard, and his hands massaged my butt like he owned it. I guess he did.

I thought my performance was pretty good—certainly better than the two little guys who danced on either side of me—actually quite far away. I guess there was a formula: a dark Latino muscleboy and a very light femboy twink in the wings and a masculine hunk in the center. Or was I flattering myself? At any rate, the crowd was pleased. The stage around me was littered with bills when I finished stripping and posing with the pole. And when I pulled the jock back on and walked around the floor, they stuffed it mostly with fives and tens and a twenty. I was hard all the time. Each deposit earned a feel. I danced with several guys and received a lot of ass massage, felt a lot of wood through denims and got half a dozen propositions. I carefully begged off—groaning that the house rules required me to stay at the Studio all night after I had danced. I did accompany one really nice lookin' guy to the men's room where I blew him in a stall. Another invited me to one of the booths where he got a lap dance and a blowjob.

I was personally attracted really to only one young guy who asked me to dance, pulled me tight and felt my hardness in his gut as he massaged my ass. He was a little taller than me, a little more muscular, with a masculine model's face and classy. He looked into my eyes with a real hunger and an invitation. But, he didn't follow through. It was just a tease. He tipped me well, but I didn't get his name. I'd do him for nothing if he asked. But, he disappeared soon after Marty entered the room. I made about $400 for my first night! Not counting the promised salary. I was a porn star!

Later of course I reported to Marty's office. He congratulated me on my first night and started to remove what little clothing I was wearing—a jock, a tee, boots and my ubiquitous straw cowboy hat. He stroked my dick a few times to bring it to complete erection. "I really love the feel of young hard dick. And yours fits very nicely in my palm. I may even let you use this with me sometime. But not tonight." Then he stripped. He had a powerful hairy chest, well-developed arms, a slim waist and huge thighs. A small beer belly obscured what had probably been once some very nice abs. And he had the beginning of muffin handles. But the dick made up for it. I had already seen and sampled it during the audition so I knew what to expect. He was thick, dark and long. "I played football in college," he conveyed as my eyes scanned his body, apparently with a little disappointment. "On your knees on the bed boy. Shoulders on the mattress. Arch that ass nice and high for Daddy. I'm gonna show you what my boys have cum to expect from their Daddy."

I did as I was told and within seconds felt the lubed fingers working my hole. He was a big man and I was definitely going to feel his entry even if he opened me with his large lubed fingers. I expected violence and for it to hurt. Particularly when he swatted my bare cheeks hard with an open hand as his cock reached out to my cleft. But, he was careful and worked his way in slowly. "I don't hurt my boys—at least not so it harms business. They're much too valuable." He bottomed and stroked a few times. I urged him on. So he pulled out and slid in again, swirling around a bit, looking for my prostate. "Deeper sir. And faster if y'all don't mind." He almost lost it. I felt a few hard plunges and figured he was going to blow soon.

"Good boy." He continued to stroke, getting faster and harder with each thrust. He found and started hitting my prostate better than any of my high school playmates had ever done. This was a man's dick, and he knew what to do with it. And he knew how to hold back. None of my hight school buddies had been able to sustain a fuck for half this long. My temperature was rising. My nerves were tingling in anticipation. My cock was rock hard and leaking. Marty reached around, fisted my dick and pulled me back into his lap as he went deeper than ever. I felt him knock at the second ring. It stung, but he pulled back. "I'm going to leave that for one of our clients. At the Peacock you're still technically a virgin until someone has popped your second hymen."

Then he started to spasm, filling the bulb of the magnum with his creamy cum. He didn't stroke me, but he did massage my balls, squeezing them just a bit to get the fuckers moving. That pushed the cum right out through my cock which caused my ass muscles to tighten, milking the last from him. His hands moved to my pecs and he pulled me back against his chest as he nibbled on my neck and pinched my nipples. "That feels good, boy. Very good. You are going to be one of my favorites. At least for awhile. I can tell already. Right now you're nice and tight and clean. But remember, nobody touches that secret cherry without my permission. It's gonna be very expensive." He pulled out and rolled onto the bed. I knew what was expected. I bent over and licked him clean.

I of course at the time had no idea what he was talking about. I had never heard of a second cherry. I barely understood the glory of the prostate. And Marco had taken my first cherry several months ago. That was when we were pledging eternal love, which of course turned out to be puppy lust. We had no idea what we were doing or saying—just that it felt good. Real good.

Friday and Saturday night were similar experiences for me—except that I made $200 when one older guy took me to the booth and fucked me. I had to work to get him really hard, but the tip was worth it. After only three nights of work, I had made over $1500—the most money that I had ever had in my life. The Peacock apartment turned out to be $300/week and "costume rental and makeup" another $50/night, linens $20/week.

And then I learned that all my "tips" were deposited in a lock box with my name on it. I immediately decided I could scam some of the tips myself. But, that proved difficult. Obviously we were wearing only jocks. And we couldn't stash anything in the club—it was thoroughly cleaned and inspected every night after we left. So when the bouncer checked us out, there was no place to hide anything. He even stuck a few fingers up our asses to inspect, a job he did thoroughly. I think that was one of his perks. It (the box, not my anus) opened once a week—and Marty got 10%. So after "expenses" I netted about a grand a week. And in that time Marty had taken me only the first night.

My career in porn had been launched a little after my 19

th

. And I had learned a lot about the "industry" and more about myself than how to dance. I was entering a different world, with different rules. I was inventory, to be counted and protected, to be sold, over and over again. Any innocence I had (and any thoughts I had about "true romantic gay love") were gone, or at least on indefinite hold. But, I was learning—and banking some serious cash. There'd be time for love in the future.

******

It's been more than three months since I began dancing at Peacock Studio. It's getting near Christmas—I can tell from the decor on the shops and streets. I've never been happier in my life. In this little community, I can be who I was born to be. Although the dance team line-up changes quite often, the three guys (including me) who rent apartments on the third floor have been steady performers since the beginning, and I've actually made a few friends with whom I can talk, go shopping with and even share a meal from time to time. And I don't have to put up with a Pop who was taking me down and telling me I was bad almost every day. I'm not a secret (at least when I'm away from my sisters). And I don't have to cruise. They come to me. For the first time in my life, folks wanted me, the me I was; not the me I was supposed to be.

The approvals, applause and tips that I was getting were a real ego-booster. And I was getting better, I was sure. I developed some routines, capitalizing on my hard-to-get persona and gymnastic abilities, and bought some new clothes. I was no longer just the rough cowboy, but I could also be an urban cowboy or a slick Texas Ranger—although with my trademark straw cowboy hat, which now sported the "eye" of a peacock feather. My shaggy blonde medium long hair projected the All-American boy look. And few nights went by when I wasn't invited to one of the booths for a special performance. I always received offers to "go home" with a client, but so far I had been very careful and had held to Peacock's rigid rules. Every gun in the house was trained on me, and quite a few got to use them. I was actually beginning to feel good about myself: who I was and what I could get. Occasionally I enjoyed the sex. More rarely, I was attracted to the guy. I kept watching for that anonymous young guy with whom I had danced on the first night, the one who had lit my heart, but he didn't show at the club again—at least not while I was there.

I had checked back on the electrician's job, and they hired me. It's day work. I call an 800 number between 5 and 6 and learn whether I am working the next day. I could work every day if I wanted, it seems. I have a fairly regular schedule 8 to 5. I'm putting in my time and will qualify as a licensed electrician in another half year or so. Therefore, I'm on the books and have to pay taxes and all that shit. But as a day-worker, I don't get health, vacation, holidays or any other perks. The pay is nothing in comparison with what I take in on the three nights per week that I dance, but it does mean that I have some independence and some future. It also gives me great cover with my sisters with whom I have become very close. Whenever we meet, I have something to talk about—the jobs that I've been working on, the funny guys I work with etc. I was living two lives, really enjoying one and putting up with the other for the future.

Things were going too well. That was not my life experience or my fate. Something was going to happen. I could feel it in my bones.

Then the proverbial "other shoe" fell. Marty called a meeting for Saturday, an hour before the first show was scheduled—just shy of five months after I had started. Six of us—all "veterans"--were invited to his office. I arrived after a few hours in the gym. The streets were all decorated and Peacock even had a tacky lit fake Christmas tree in the corner. It was the end of holiday season. Everythng would come down in a day or so.

He complained that Houston PD was squeezing him for more. And, he claimed, they wanted him to "control his boys." He had no choice but to pay and to comply. Everything was more expensive. Then, he continued. His take of our tips was going to 20% "to cover increased expenses." And that included what we got from johns on off nights.

But, we didn't know how to interpret the demand for control. We thought he already had a good deal of control in fact. We'd all have to be tested weekly—by his doctor—and the charge would be deducted from our pay.

And then, the final demand: our ankle bracelets were going to be replaced. He would know where we were at all times, and he had the ability to "punish" us with a remote shock if we went anywhere without registering where we were going on his computer first. The shock would be conveyed by Bluetooth from our cells. Off night johns had to register.

The new "bracelets" weren't bracelets at all, but bronze neck rings, about a half inch wide. They would be impossible to hide—except maybe under a collar and tie—but who the hell fucks in a collar and tie? The neck ring rule was designed to make sure he got his cut while simultaneously letting all our johns know who owned us.