Go-go

Go-go

by Emile

Copyright 2008

Carlos didn't like being a go-go boy.  For starters, as he slid his arse down the greased pole, squatting wide, a john kept squeezing his ballsac.  Hard.  The guys weren't supposed to touch, but Mitch the manager had his own rules, and the main one was if it made him money, it was okay.  So the guys could pet Carlos all they pleased, so long as they didn't pull off his g-string - without paying anyway.  He stayed on his haunches, gyrating slowly just like Mitch had shown him, his arms gripping the pole high above his head, to show off his shaved and muscular arms to the audience, and keep him nice and exposed for the VIP gropers.  Another guy slipped his finger under the waistband, fingering his hard meatus under the thin strip of fabric.  Fuck, they always did that, the tattoos that seductively curled under the hem, wrapping his shaved cock right down to the root, always drew them in.  I mean, that's why Mitch had paid for them.  Plus, the swollen knob almost burst out of the white G, the cocktail of drugs they fed him and the thick cockring kept him constantly hard and horny, as did Mitch's rule on cumming - or not cumming, really, unless it was for a john, which was pretty rare - plenty of guys fucked his arse alright, until it was red and painful, and every thrust made him yelp - but few made him cum or even wanted to, once they were done they were done.

The thin strap along his arsecrack did little to relieve the pain as he slid on the pole all night, especially not with guys reaching around and fingering his pucker all through the show.  He bucked as the guy that had been squeezing his tackle reached under his corded thigh to do just that, almost lifting his leg in his eagerness to bore into his hungry arse.  It was still fairly tight, Mitch made sure of that with regular exercises and tightening gels, but the arselips were puffy and raw, and scratched by guys fingernails and whatever other shit they snuck in there while he performed on stage.  Once a guy had even rammed a lighter up his hole, a big steel canister that had scraped the insides, and all Mitch did was pull him back and tell him to easy on.  Carlos even had to finish the show with the lighter still jammed up his cunthole, since he was never, ever allowed to cover his package up during an act.  Mitch's special rule meant that on nights like tonight, when guys deliberately dragged their hands under his waist straps to inch the g-string lower on his tackle, there was nothing he could do to adjust the slipping fabric, even if half of his cock root showed, or his balls flopped out - nothing, even if they broke Mitch's rule and pulled it down altogether.  Even then, he had to turn around and do a full squat showing his arse before leaving the stage, to give something for them to remember before he went off.

Mitch said his mule dick was to obscene for them to see in public, that the ugly horsecock was only fit for private viewing, when they could gawk all they liked at his unnatural flesh. It hadn't been that unnatural when he'd first come through the doors, he was just a regular fit and hung latino guy, but Mitch's gym, drugs and careful attentions had made him into shaved, tattooed muscle freak with a swollen cock and balls to match his pumped chest and arms.  Even on the street, the thin tees he pulled on clung to every smooth muscle, and celtic swirls snaked up his neck and down his arms, making him indecent to most.  Mitch insisted that they wore the 'uniform' to and from the club - which for most guys was a fitting white collared shirt and tight black pants, suave and sexy, with just a hint of muscle and dick bulging under the cloth.  If it weren't for the stallion logo and their exceptional bodies, they could have been waiters at any of the casinos.

But the go-go boys had different uniforms.  Thin frayed cotton tees, the shirtsleeves ripped off, and a huge stallions logo on the front, and "dancer" printed in large letters on the back.  The black pants they wore were tighter, and cut off at mid-thigh.  Flip flops, instead of shoes.  Basically, there was no mistaking them, except maybe for the rent boys that plied the strip in later hours.  Worse, every time they were late, as well as docking half their pay, Mitch would make an alteration, a little something just to 'tear strips' off the guy, humiliate him so he'd remember not to be late again.  Small incentives for the guys to move their arses quickly to and from work. Problem was, Carlos lived with his two brothers, 20 miles away in the projects, and even when their gangs weren't keeping him up, hassling him or making noise, it was a long trip into town.

So now, when he went in public, there was just the two inches of fabric holding the shirt together, the "V' having been ripped to his belly button, exposing his wide brown chest, and not only were his smooth pecs bursting out the top, but so were most of his hard abs, forcing him to keep pulling the rip together to keep the semblence of decency.  The shirt was torn, exposing a brown dime sized nipple to the cool air, and people naturally stared at he thick gauge piercing that skewered the nub whenever they looked at him.  And if that wasn't bad enough, he'd long since popped the top two buttons of his fly, so without any underwear over his huge tackle, every grannie and street junkie could see the veiny dark cockroot if he twisted his waist or reached up high.  And on the crowded bus, when he gave up his seat to an old woman, he always ended up in the aisle, arms stretched above him holding on to the rails, everything from his shaved pits to his smooth thighs in plain view of everyone.  It was almost as bad, exposing himself unwillingly in public, as being forced to completely debase himself for cash.

The lights went down, a hot spotlight zooming in on the squatting spic fucktoy.  Everyone in the room could see his pumped brown muscles now, and the guy drilling him as he squatted on the brass pole.  Guys wandered over from the tables, seeing the chance for some free and easy entertainment.  It was a hard and nasty life, but, you could say Carlos was destined to be a go-go fuckboy.  He was good looking and sporty, and his body naturally beefed up easily.  He came from poor latino trash migrants, went to a third-rate school and got a bad education, and his brothers had already turned to gangs and drugs. Still, he was shy, and straight, and was completely humiliated by his (somewhat) secret life, so maybe, if he'd been a little stronger, a little more self assured, he could have kept his dream of a clean, Catholic couples life alive.  Of the family, and the white picket fence.  But he was too passive for that, he was no pusher, he was always pushed.  Pushed out of school with a knocked up junior high girlfriend and no job.  Pushed into strip shows for milk money.  Pushed into brutal fucks for bread.  Pushed to fuck up his own flawless body into the greasy freak show that his clients wanted.  It had taken years of unrelenting breaking, years of compromise, unmanned by a thousand cuts, but he was Mitch's bitch now, and he just had to push those feelings deep inside.  The guy wormed another finger deep into his pulsing pussy.  Pushing them deeper in, for him.  Grunting, he pushed back, splitting his own mancunt on the knuckle.  The middle aged client smiled, spit dripping off his beard, stabbing his fat fingers deep in Carlos' crevice, while another hand began working on his thinly covered nads.  Yeah, he didn't like being a go-go boy, but then, what choice did he have?