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He goes for walk with pal's sister.

On this guy's tab." The bartender turned to me, and I just nodded curtly. I was drinking scotch rocks.

"I'm Drake," the window cleaner said, turning back to me as he took a packet of Camel cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, lit up, and offered the one he'd lit between his lips to me, showing that he had others in the package. "And you?"

I hesitated, nodding away the offered cigarette and inhaling both air and the puff of smoke he produced with the thought of how sexy he looked with a cigarette held at an angle between his lips. The thought of sharing saliva with him again had almost prompted me to take the cigarette even though I didn't smoke. He quickly honed in. "Come on, we've had sex. You're going to pay me a fuckin' hundred dollars to have sex again-to fuck you rough. You can fuckin' tell me your name."

"Boyd. I'm Boyd," I said, stammering, nonplussed enough not to give him a fake name. "I'm meeting someone here," I added, throwing up defenses. He moved fast. And he was asserting control-god, no, he'd asserted control and I had surrendered to him already. He could have forced me to the floor right there and fucked me; I would have let him. The other guys in the bar would have let him. They would have just stood around us and egged him on.

That wasn't in my preference-my tolerance-pattern. Total frustration. I would simultaneously love it and hate it. I wanted him on my terms. I knew he would take me on his terms or would just tease me, establish that he could have me any way he wanted to, and then would abandon me-just like he hadn't come to my apartment that morning when I'd signaled him to and offered him money to do so.

"I wasn't thinking of fucking you here, on top of the bar," he said, with an easy "just kidding" laugh. "We can fuckin' screw at your place. You gave me the address."

How transparent was I that he could so easily discern my thoughts? I opened my mouth to respond, without any idea what I would say, when I was saved by Maury, who had bellied up to the bar on the other side of Drake.

"Who's your luscious friend, Boyd?" He asked, his hand went to the small of Drake's back. I was grateful I hadn't given Drake a fake name.

Drake turned from me to Maury, and his hand slid off my arm and went to Maury's butt. It was like the window cleaner's attention had snapped away from me to Maury. That wasn't surprising. Maury wasn't that old-in his early forties-and he was movie-star handsome, in good shape, and dressed elegantly and expensively to style, this time in a safari suit that was a bit ahead of its time for mid-sixties men's fashion unless you took into account that it broadcast that Maury had actually been on safari and could afford to do so. Drake was just a window cleaner; of course he'd go with the money.

"Not a friend, really," I said lamely, noting that Maury was looking into Drake's eyes rather than mine as he spoke to me. I could also tell from the slight lurch in Drake's body that one of Maury's hands was being intimate. That wasn't unusual for the atmosphere in Barracuda. No one, including the bartender, had done a double take when Drake had tongue-fuck kissed me for what seemed like a full minute.

"Who the fuck is this?" Drake asked me nodding at Maury. He asked it in a friendly, not a belligerent voice.

"He's my boss," I answered.

"Not a friend?" Maury said. "I saw how he was kissing you when I came in. If he's not a friend, then you won't mind me showing interest, will you?"

"No, of course not," I said, going for a tone of sarcasm. "Be my guest." In fact, it wouldn't have mattered to Maury even if I had objected. If he saw what he wanted, he took it. And, with his money and looks, he could have pretty much whatever he wanted. He certainly could have it from me; he signed my paychecks; he paid part of my rent; if we weren't both bottoms, he'd be fucking me, and I'd let him. He fucked me mentally and emotionally constantly.

"Boyd and me are friendly enough," Drake said.

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