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Subject: Title story: "Corey" Author: Anonymous 76729069
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Date: Fri, 02 Jun 2006 05:45:28 +0000
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Corey
Corey was a hustler. He was a rare one. He was self-admitted and happy in his
work. It was hard to guess his occupation from his genial facial expression. He
stood out from all the other solemn-faced hustlers like a bright new penny in a
jar of old ones.
Corey probably could have been in the movies if he had the drive or the
inclination. For he certainly had the looks and the body. He certainly was happy
the way things were.
"I'm doing all right," he always said with a grin like a toothpaste commercial.
"I'm all right at what I'm doing."
Yes, Corey had it made. He had just turned twenty and had a face that could turn
crowds. His hair was lemon blond with golden highlights, and he wore it forward
and let the curly locks fall where they may. He had the type of hair that always
looked sexy. When it needed trimming, he cut it himself.
"I do a better job than these trained sissies," he always said, and he
always did.
Corey had lucky skin. He always had a suntanned look. No matter what he ate or
drank, he never broke out. "I never had a pimple in my life," he would say and
quickly add, "and I'm just plain addicted to cokes."
Corey's eyes were bright and belied his actual intelligence. They looked either
an intense green or a vivid blue, depending on what he was wearing. When he
wasn't wearing anything, which was often, they were sort of a light aquamarine.
Corey's teeth were light, even and very strong. Sometimes he would show off by
uncapping coke bottles with them. The only imperfect thing about his face was
his nose which was broken. At the age of ten, he had fallen off the back of a
hay wagon and nobody had bothered to have it reset. Still it was a good nose, a
sexy nose that complemented the perfect features of his face. It crinkled easy
when he laughed and was spattered with a sprin- kling of small red freckles.
Corey would have looked a bit like the painting of Michael the Archangel if it
hadn't been for the strength and the struc- ture of his jawline and chin. It was
a powerful feature and hardened his otherwise angel-like face.
"It's the only thing I got from my father," he always said, and it was. His
beautiful handsome face topped one of the most perfect bodies I've ever seen in
New York City, in or out of the gym.
"I don't believe in exercise," he would boast. "I just screw -- that's why." It
was quite a way to grow.
His neck was muscular and topped off a torso that seemed chiseled out of golden
marble. He had what is called a washboard stomach, flat and ridged with muscles.
His buttocks were high and indented on each side like a dancer's. His thighs
were sinuous and his knees wicked. His calves were perfect. They were all
covered with mist-fine, tiny, blond hairs.
Corey walked slightly bow-legged, generally with his thumbs hooked in his belt
loops and his pelvis thrust forward as if he were proud of what he had in his
pants. He was. It almost seemed sinful for the handsome boy to be also well
hung, and well hung he was.
There was a blond trail of soft hair under his navel that led the way to a
beautiful piece of meat. "It's pretty, all right," he would say. "I wouldn't
part with it for the world." He didn't have to. The world -- that is, the buying
world -- came to him. It was a perfect cock pink, fat and fleshy. When soft, it
was five inches long when it got hard, it measured nearly ten inches of straight
fat meat. The head of his cock was larger than the width of the shaft and was an
intense pink color. His balls were huge and prompted a trick to remark that they
looked like a couple of door knobs in a chamois bag.
Corey never wore undies. "When you got it, flaunt it," he said. He had it
all right.
Corey's dress or uniform was most often a pair of tight wheat jeans, brown
leather boots and a light blue or yellow torso T-shirt and a wheat denim jacket.
Corey always wore a bandana of blue or red or green loosely around his neck. "It
adds a bit of class," he would tell his hustling cohorts.
Corey averaged generally two or three hundred dollars a week, depending upon his
mood and the generosity of his tricks. And out of that he only spent seventy-
five dollars to pay for his hotel, meals, movies and other minor needs. The rest
he socked into the bank. "You ain't going to catch me broke at thirty," he would
say. "I'm building me a real nest egg." And he would show his fellow hustlers
his savings account book, which as of this day contained nine thousand one
hundred and twenty-five dollars and seventy-two cents. And he had only been
hustling about eighteen months.
Corey had come to New York City from a small college town in West Virginia in
April. Corey's dad had been a miner, a drinking one. He had been killed in a
mining accident when Corey was three. Corey's mother, Bell, didn't mind much
because the old man had been a prick of misery to live with. She just kept on
having children by various miners and collected her ...
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