Diary of a Hustler

Diary of a Hustler

2.4 5
by William Maltese

This reissue of the classic shocking account of the sleazy underbelly of Los Angeles comes hot from the mouth of an 18-year-old prostitute. Joey's frank and full-on diary reveals even more than you wanted to know about what the tricks ask for--and just how Joey gives it to them! Day by day, the truth about this young nymphomaniac is revealed and you get to know the… See more details below


This reissue of the classic shocking account of the sleazy underbelly of Los Angeles comes hot from the mouth of an 18-year-old prostitute. Joey's frank and full-on diary reveals even more than you wanted to know about what the tricks ask for--and just how Joey gives it to them! Day by day, the truth about this young nymphomaniac is revealed and you get to know the guy behind the advert, the hustler's human heart.

Product Details

MLR Press
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.36(d)

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I'm about to get my asshole fucked royally by Thane Calendar. I can think of worse fates, because Thane is one helluva nice looking not-all-that-old man.

Thane's hair is black, cut short at the sides and in back, left fairly long on top and in front. He doesn't use hair spray, so his hair in front is always falling into his startlingly green eyes, and Thane is always either running his hand through his hair to unblock his vision, or he has this attractive way of giving his head a little flick that does the job, but not usually all that well.

His eyebrows are thick and the kind you feel sure would meet across the bridge of his nose if he didn't keep the space plucked, or shaved, or whatever. Maybe the space never does grow hair but merely gives that impression. His eyelashes are sexily long and lush.

His nose has been broken at least once. Anyway, there's that kind of slight bulge to its bridge. One rumor has it that his father did it. Another rumor has it that it was broken in a street fight. Both rumors have the doer lucky no more, having gotten almost beaten to death by Thane out for vengeance.

Thane's mouth is nice, and although people say his lips are too thin, I don't see it. At least you can tell Thane has lips, unlike Drummond Gates who looks as if God got lazy and just made a knife-slice at the lower edge of his face.

Thane has a body that's seen to its best advantage when stripped stark naked. He spends an awfully lot of his spare time in the gym, working out, and his is that really well-defined bulk and muscle-cut that looks ill-contained by clothes, no matter how big the shirt or how baggy the trousers. Even when I see him in just aT-shirt, the cotton always seems stretched to the brink of ripping.

Out of his clothes, his body is an entirely different story. It seems to shed its bulkiness as each piece of his clothing drops away. Completely naked, he comes across as one of those wrestlers in those Greco-Roman sculptures so often seen in art books. Thane naked, and everything about him just seems to fit more perfectly.

His pectorals are rectangular, wider at their tops and at their lower folds than they are up-and-down. His pectoral cleavage is deep, always filled with shadow that only emphasizes its serrated-cut. His belly is hard and has well-chiseled ripples that make it hard to find his belly button which is neither innie nor outie but merely flush to all adjoining skin--as if Thane, like the Biblical Adam, came into the world without benefit of an umbilical.

I think his arms and legs look really great, because they don't come across as distortedly pumped. Oh, all the muscle groupings are there and well-defined for anyone who knows that sort of thing well enough to point them out, one by one, but I've seen some guys whose biceps and triceps, thighs and calves, really look gross. One guy I've seen around has arms as big as tree trunks, gotten that way by his regimen of lifting full garbage cans. It's the rest of him that's thin as a beanpole. I always expect the weight of his arms alone to topple the bastard smack over on his genuinely homely face.

Anyway, Thane has an ass to die for. Neither too big, nor too small, it's rock solid. It has dimples, one to each side, visible even when he doesn't clench his buttocks for emphasis. Thane's ass is one part of him that looks great in clothes. His buns are always getting favorable comments from guys who are envious, and from guys who'd like to have at it.

Another part of Thane's anatomy that looks good in clothes, and is the envy of all who see it and want it, is his crotch. The man has a cock and pair of balls that look just as stellar when stuffed into the containing sock of the confining Jockey shorts Thane always wears as they do when turned loose as they are now.

His cock has lots of bulk, but taken in conjunction with the rest of him, it doesn't come off grotesquely so. His balls are genuinely bull-like, but they offer the perfect complement to the rest of him.

His pubic bush looks way smaller than anyone could ever imagine normal. A cock and balls the size of his should have a far lusher V-ing with them at any crotch, but Thane keeps most of his shaved so none of it shows when he wears bikini posing trunks. He's won at least two amateur body-building trophies that I know of, although he's really not bulked enough to go pro.

His pubic hair isn't his only hair that sees his razor on a frequent basis, either. He shaves most the rest of his body, too, because he figures hair aesthetically distracts from whatever the muscle camouflaged beneath it.

"Ready, kid?" Thane asks.

I'm making a mental note as to how the two of us must look in comparison. Thane's obvious near perfection makes me more than a little self-conscious. I'm too thin. Without even sucking in my gut, I can see both my hipbones which become genuinely predominant whenever I lie on my back. Anyone can see more than a few of my ribs, too, although don't get the idea that I'm skeletal, even if I could just use a bit more meat on my bones. As for my muscle definition, it can be seen, but none of it is truly bas-relief. It's more as if I'm a piece of ivory upon which God merely sketched all the muscle groupings where they should be but never got around to going any further.

When and if my pectorals ever do mature, they'll apparently be more circular than square. My abdominals will be more clumped, here and there, than evenly spaced washboard ridges.

My ass, I guess, is okay. Anyway, I'm told it's mighty fine. I don't spend narcissistically long hours backed up to any mirror, but I know my butt fills out the seat of my pants. Any bigger, I suppose, and it would look ridiculous on so thin a body as mine. Any smaller and it would look as if I didn't have an ass at all.

I wish my cock were bigger, but, then, who doesn't wish for more sizable meat? I measure it frequently with hopes that its usual seven and a quarter inches have grown to eight, even nine, but that's wishful thinking. In the end, I've seen bigger and a helluva lot smaller, so I can't really complain. Besides, even I admit that mine has the advantage of having had a doctor who really knew how to remove foreskin. My cock looks as if it came out of the womb neatly trimmed to display its impressively flared corona.

My balls make a mere handful that's not likely to produce any abundant overflow, even when my scrotum is completely flaccid. Whenever I get the least bit horny, the sac begins immediate compaction. By the time I'm blasting my wad, my balls, every time, are so far elevated to the base of my dick that I look like a pre-adolescent whose testicles have yet to drop.

I've a fairly decent pubic bush which I keep trimmed short, because the shorter the hair that obscures my cockbase, the bigger my cock appears. I've a thick and shiny head of hair. I suspect I wouldn't even have to shave my beard, but I do it anyway. There's something about being as hairless as I am, except in the obvious places, like atop my head, at my eyebrows and lashes, beneath my arms, at my crotch, and in the crease of my ass, that sometimes makes me downright envious of those so obviously butch studs who manage five o'clock shadows a mere two seconds after each shave, and who have chests and backs that seem covered with bear fur.

Except, I guess, it's the very fact that I'm pretty much hairless, and have a physique definitely more boy- than man-like, and have a face that makes me seem good years younger than I am, which brings me to the here and now, laid out as I am on my back, on a table, my legs bent at their knees, my heels actually tucked up against my ass, as I wait for the feel of Thane's sizable cock plugged up my asshole.

Thane works for Glen Mackelroy who runs an exclusive and expensive call-boy service out of a penthouse downtown. Apparently, Glen has, among others, a certain clientele, rumored bigwigs every one, who like young boys but aren't about to risk their jobs and or their social standings by messing around with chicken. They make do with guys, like me, who are of age but don't look it. Recently, at least two of Glen's stable of pseudo chickens matured a tad too much for the ongoing tastes of Glen's special-interest group. Glen put word on the street as to what he wanted by way of replacements.

I didn't volunteer, mind you. Kenny Jones told Philip Jackson about me, who told ... Well, you get the picture. Somehow word got to Glen who apparently likes what he sees but wants, now, to make sure I've the other potential for which he's looking. If the whole purpose to my servicing certain men is that I have to pretend to be as innocent as I look, it takes a lot of expertise to feign naivety when you've no longer got it, and Glen wants to be sure I'm up to the act. Glen only deals with professionals, by way of call boys, and my session with Thane is to make damned sure I won't balk when confronted by whatever the pecker that's suddenly bursting to fuck me.

Oh, Glen could ask around, and he probably did, to find out that I'd turned more than my share of tricks on the street. It wasn't any great leap for me to go from my dad fucking my ass to my selling that same ass. I guess, though, that Glen wants to hear all of that from someone whose judgment he knows he can trust, and, apparently, Thane fits the bill.

My old man started fucking me before I was into puberty. Not that it was his fucking me regularly, Mom knowing full well what he did and only glad it wasn't her that he screwed so often, that made me run away from home. Actually, I never was all that turned off by Dad's perky little prick trying to do its damnedest up my butt. What turned me off was the old man's total lack of finesse and expertise. He never did get more than a grand total of three good fuck-pumps of my butt before he'd let go and cream. Most of the time, he'd let go on his initial slide inside.

Thane walks up to that part of the table that gives him the best position for cock-plugging my butt. The table height has been specifically adjusted to best accommodate Thane's height, from his feet to the base of his cock. It's merely a case of his tugging down his erect prick, presently upstanding before his muscled belly, and presenting it to the well-placed target that's my rectum.

He doesn't just plug his dick right in, however. I guess there's more to this than just the fuck, in that he leans forward, over me, between my filleted legs, and places the flats of his hands to either side of my shoulders.

His face comes in real close. His black hair tumbles over his green eyes, but I guess he can still see, because he says, "My God, you look like chicken!" Much like Colonel Sanders if he'd bought what he thought was a fryer but had discovered he had a turkey, instead.

Thane moves his face down my neck to where there's that little indentation that's always more pronounced when I'm on my back.

Thane actually sniffs. I hear him. I feel his nose and his breath against my skin.

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