Stan woke up that morning in Rick's bed. The other man's warm body tangled over him, boney and heavy. He was sort of grateful for that, the motel's air conditioning made him feel like he was in the arctic. As he lay there his mind wandered backwards three years ago, he was fifteen and had just started this very profitable side-line on the docks.
"Are you crazy?!" Ford shouted when Stan opened up and told him where the extra cash had been coming from.
"Hey keep your voice down." Stan said.
"Are you crazy," Ford repeated softer but still pretty incredulous.
"Look, it's not a big deal, I'm not actually hooking, I never let them fuck me in the ass," Stan said.
Ford shook his head. "That's not what worries me. You could get some VD or worse, end up dead."
"I have this," Stan pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and showed it to Ford. "I can take care of myself. As for gettin' VD that ain't happenin' I check 'em they're clean."
Then he put it back.
"Don't you have any sense of shame or dignity? It's disgusting and demeaning, Stan." Ford said.
"Look, it's my body, I can do what I want with it, and as I said I never let 'em fuck my ass." Stan said. "Besides some of these sailors give me really great nautical info."
Ford turned his back to Stan still shaking his head. "I know I can't reason with you."
"Yeah, promise me you won't tell Mom or Dad? They'll freak." Stan added putting a hand on his brother's shoulder.
Ford turned around, gears in his head turning, then sighed. "Fine, I won't. Just don't get hurt."
"Thanks." Stan retorted cheerfully. "High six?"
"Yeah," Ford cracked a weary smile and put up his hand, and they high six'd on it.
Ford had kept his word for nearly three years. Until three days ago that was. Stan punched his pillow, thinking about the whole thing again. Rick mumbled something in Spanish and clutched at Stan's arm. Who was this guy? And why did he have so much junk that looked like it belonged in a science fiction flick? He wonders what Ford would make of this stuff, he might be able to tell Stan what it was. Stan felt the rage and despair well up inside of him like pus in a wound. He wanted to punch something, scream and sob all at the same time. Feeling this all at once was confusing, so Stan did nothing. Rick's breathing changed. Something tapped on the glass in a tank across from the bed. Stan found himself looking at a pink, bald, tiny, wizened monkey with large bulging green eyes and a huge veiny head. It looked directly at him. It blew on the glass and drew an H-E-L-P M…Stan goggled at it.
"The monkey is a fuckin' liar. It just wants to eat your face." Rick said almost directly in Stan's ear.
Stan, startled, sat up knocking Rick off the bed. "Wha!"
"Hey, thanks, that was g-g-genius," Rick said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
"You're the one who woke me up, knucklehead." Stan grumbled.
Rick picked himself off the floor, Stan stared at him. The guy must be 98 lbs soaking wet, he was all ribs, bones and sharp angles. Stan wondered why he'd been so horny for Rick last night.
As Rick stretched, itched and wiped drool from his chin, Stan wondered what the appeal of this guy was.
"Hey I'm not a knucklehead, I got kicked out of some of the best colleges in the country!" Rick said.
"West Coast Tech?" Stan asked.
"Yep." Rick scratched a rib and belched. "M-my fucking roommate narced on me. I was making some primo LSD in our dorm. But they were fuckin' losers. I wasn't even enrolled under my real name."
"I'm going back to my own room, I've got to shower and get the taste of cum out of my mouth I've got a big day of treasure hunting today," Stan said.
As Stan left Rick called after him, "You do know gold is a rare metal, right, Stan?!"
Stan stopped in the doorway and looked at Rick. "Then why do so many people have teeth made of it?"
"You really want me to answer that? " Rick said rolling his eyes.
"Hey there's a guy on a the corner sellin' gold watches for five dollars." Stan added, he made finger quotes "Rare' yeah right."
Rick glared at him. "Hey Stan, gullible is written on the ceiling."
"I'm NOT fallin' for that,' Stan retorted, but he looked up all the same. It wasn't gullible written on the ceiling but 'FUCK YOU'
"Son of a bitch!" Stan cursed over Rick's rising cackle.
He went back to his motel room, took a shower and brushed his teeth with the travel sized toothbrush he was sure Mom had packed. The whirring noise and the chugging of machinery from the next room could be heard through the wall. He didn't have enough for real breakfast, just coffee from Rita's. Where he pointedly ignored Rick.
Then out to the beach for more treasure hunting, he spent the whole day searching the sand with his trusty metal detector and got about $4.50 in change. It was enough for some food, but not another night at the motel. So he had to hit the docks again. It was a slow night until, Hagar spotted him. Hagar was his nickname for the longshoreman who was one his regulars. It wasn't the guy's real name. It was just that the man was horrible: huge, ginger, smelly with an unkempt beard. He usually got a handie.
"Hey, kid you wanna cig?" Hagar said. He always danced around the subject of sex, this was an opening.
Stan sighed and looked at the man, he noticed the wedding ring, gleaming on one of Hagar's red sausage like fingers, so the asshole was married? "Yeah sure."
They ducked into an alleyway.
"Suck me off," Hagar demanded. "I wanna treat myself."
"Alright, It'll cost you extra," Stan sighed again, dreading the prospect.
He got on his knees in the alleyway as Hagar unzipped revealing a matted nest of pubic hair, and a turgid, ruddy penis. If the rest of him already stank, Hagar's genitals were worse, they stank of sweat, yeast and piss. Stan closed his eyes, held his breath and began to suck on Hagar's tallywacker, which wasn't even erect yet. It took forever for that to happen and a lot of work on Stan's part. The taste was the worst, or maybe it was the smell, or the fact he was being gagged by the asshole's wang, he couldn't decide. Then Hagar stopped being passive and letting it happen, he grabbed Stan's head and started thrusting into Stan's throat, while grunting like a pig. Stan could hardly breath, but he managed, though it was taking forever, he was drenched in funk and ball sweat. When with a weird cry Hagar came in his mouth. Stan decided that the taste of Hagar's jizzz was the worst thing ever, rancid, bitter, and curdled in his mouth. As Stan puked it on ground, the bastard took a grimy twenty out of his wallet. Stan held out his hand and Hagar placed it down.
"You got a good mouth on you, kiddo." Hagar remarked.
"Uhh, thanks." Stan replied, trying to keep his disgust down.
Hagar patted him on the head in a patronizing way, zipped up his pants and walked out of the alleyway. Now, Stan had enough for the room and a little extra. Stan got off the ground. He needed to wash the taste of that out of his mouth, maybe forget too. He travelled a couple blocks east, to a dive bar called the Red Rooster Inn, where they served him despite his age, it was the haunt of low-lifes, hustlers and johns. Stan didn't go too often. It was smoky, dark and probably filthy, too dark to see the dirt really, but Stan didn't care. He got up to the bar, ordered a jack & coke from the sad old coot, behind the bar. The bartender looked a bit like a basset hound, saggy face with large watering sad, grey eyes.
He got his drink. He might shoot pool, if he could find someone else to do it with, or he might just watch the tv. He drank it, savoring the taste of cola and cheap whiskey.
Someone was waving at him, from a booth in a darkened corner. He looked over and there sat Rick Sanchez, white t-shirt, black leather jacket, and a toothy grin. Despite what happened that morning, it felt good to see the skinny punk.
"Hey heeeeey Pines! What the heck are you doing here?" Rick asked.
"Me? What are you doing here?" Stan asked.
"This is ya know, my beat," Rick said.
Stan's heart sank. "Want me to clear off?" He asked.
"Naw, more the merrier." Rick replied.
Stan sat at the booth next to Rick and took another swig from his drink. "Ya wanna shoot some pool?"
Rick shrugged. "Yeah, I'll kick your ass."
"No cuz I'll kick your ass," Stan said.
They played a few rounds of pool. Rick was cheating somehow, Stan knew that, but since it wasn't for money Stan let him. Then the cue ball grew metal legs, started blinking and began walking towards Rick.
"So that's how ya did it," Stan said. "Can you let me…uhhh use that?"
"No." Rick said.
"Asshole," muttered Stan.
"But heey I'll hustle some suckers at pool and pay for your drinks, maybe…" Rick added. "If you shut up about it."
"Fine, I will if you promise to keep the drinks comin, Sanchez," Stan added.
Rick raised his unibrow. "Yeah, yeah Just keep quiet about it okay, Pines?"
That was a night, Stan thought he and Rick had pretty good thing going with the robot cue ball. They'd play each other for low 'bets' and when a some sucker came up, they'd let him join, sizing him up, lose a game for a small amount. Then Rick would challenge the dope to a game and the robot cue ball wouldn't let the sucker win, but made sure Rick did. When Rick did win, they'd do shots of house whiskey. Stan was unprepared for that. He expected the drinks Rick paid for would be more Jack & Cokes. Which Stan could handle, not increasingly more shots of cheap whiskey which burned down his throat. Though oddly he could roll with it. Four or five shots deep, he felt a bit tipsy. Two more and he felt pleasantly drunk, three more and things started getting blurry and time seemed to disappear. Stan was attempting to light a cigarette, which had become real hard since his fingers no longer wanted to fing…no that wasn't the word… his fingers no longer wanted to work. When Rick, came up to him and began pouting and laughing.
"You wanna sstartsh something asshole?" Stan slurred.
"Naw, y-you… you're too drunk to smoke." Rick giggled and overbalanced and fell on his ass.
"AHAHAHAHA, You're drunk too!" Stan laughed and the cigarette fell out of his mouth. "Fuck."
Rick got up. "S-ss-serves you right, ya know, Stan, cosmic justice… cosmic justice." He pointed again at Stan.
"I think I need to shleep," Stan added.
"Yeah, I'll ummm ya know walk you home," Rick said.
That night they stumbled back towards the motel under the indifferent orange streetlights, arms slung around each other to try and keep from falling. Stan and Rick paused in the alleyway and made out, tongues heavy with whiskey, hungry with lust and longing, then peeled apart almost as strangers, after. They stumbled back separately to the motel. In the wee hours of the morning Stan fumbled to fumbled to unlock the motel room, finally doing so he shut the door, walked a few paces and fell face down on the bed, soon he was deep asleep and snoring.
He didn't really see Rick for the next week, but he could hear his music and machinery through the walls. He was too busy trying to make enough to stay in the motel and maybe for some food. It mostly involved a lot of hustling and some light pick-pocketing. He was really trying the whole treasure hunting thing, if only there was something else that would make him some money. But he couldn't imagine what. One night he was getting ready to pack it in when he realized he had to piss like a racehorse. He was too far from the motel to make it there. So he decided to piss in the nearest alley, like nature intended. He was at the back of the alley behind a dumpster and had just shook off the last drops, when he saw Rick enter the exact same alley with a client.
The other man was a mustachioed Puerto Rican. Both of them spoke in Spanish and Stan didn't understand it. Rick was holding out his hand and the Mustache put the money in Rick's hand. Rick counted the bills, and dropped to his knees. He undid the other man's jeans and began to work. Stan watched half horrified and increasingly aroused. As Rick sucked the stranger's used his tongue a lot more then Stan did, flickering it on the head and then sucking down deeply. Rick worked the entered shaft and… Stan felt his own hand go to his hard cock. He started to rub one out, it was almost instinctual, he wished to christ he was the man Rick was sucking off. When the client pulled out of Rick's mouth and came with a groan, Stan almost did the same. Then Stan watched the man's face cloud as Rick was getting to his feet. The client pulled out a switchblade and said something menacing in Spanish. Quicker than Stan could believe Rick pulled out his own knife and replied in Spanish. He lunged at the man, and the client fled, swearing. Rick then slumped against the wall, looking tired and oddly old. Stan stuffed his cock back in his jeans and zipped up. Yeah, that killed the boner.
"Sanchez?" Stan said coming out from behind the dumpster. "You okay?"
"Yeah, fine Pines," Rick said and pulled his flask and took a pull. "Gotta get the taste of dick cheese out of my mouth."
"I saw everything," Stan remarked. "I wish I coulda…"
"Naw, it's fine, you thundering in would have made it worse," Rick said.
"You wanna go get fucked up?" Stan asked.
Rick shrugged. "Yeah why not."
Rick pulled himself off the wall, and they walked to the bar to get drunk.
