Gay Erotic Stories

“Oh if the walls could only talk…” or “Man, I’d sure like to have been a fly on the wall…” Yep, we’ve all heard one, both or something similar. I’m here to tell you (1) they do, and (2) I was.

Working for a bi-coastal company, I travel from time to time…be it business within our company, or to various conventions and trade shows. What it all boils down to is that I make it to Las Vegas several times a year on average. On my last trip, I really got both an eyeful and an earful.

There were three of us on this particular trip, and as per usual, hotel availability was tight. One would think with the myriad of hotels and the sheer staggering number of rooms, availability wouldn’t be consistently a problem. Initially, we were able to book a suite for the three of us at our normal hotel of choice—that is with exception of one night—a Saturday. We were able to return the following Sunday night and for the rest of our stay. Well, having had no choice in the matter, and having repeatedly checked for updated availability, we were forced to pack up and ship out for the one night.

Our corporate travel department was able to find an alternate reservation for the night at a local Howard Johnson’s (affectionately known as Ho Jo’s) that was near the McCarran Airport. Keep the word “affectionate” in mind. We’d worked all day Saturday after checking out, which also dragged into the early evening. The three of us decided to have dinner before we checked into the hotel as a matter of convenience. Besides, I’d not stayed in a Howard Johnson’s since I was a kid—I remember their ice cream parlor, etc. but not too keen on anything else. We’d imagined that their restaurant would not be anything special, if even open.

It was a Saturday night and we’d not made any reservations, so we endured a bit of a wait for dinner. This put us at the “hotel” somewhere after 10 PM, probably closer to 10:30. We’d driven away from the strip on Paradise Road, heading towards the airport. When we found the Ho Jo’s and were able to get a look at the place (which mostly in the dark—they didn’t leave the light on for us) we swallowed hard—we were going to stay here? Our initial impression was that of a shoddily maintained roadside trucker’s special; judging from the cars, campers, trucks and tour busses in littering the parking lot, vintage mid-sixties. Who knew that our Saturday night adventure would turn into something resembling “The Bates Motel from Hell?”

Firstly, our rooms weren’t together—not even in the same buildings. Then, there was the realization that two of our non-smoking rooms were located on the second floor—and there were no elevators. What fun lugging heavy luggage up the stairs. (No we didn’t dare to leave anything in the car—not judging by the neighborhood surroundings and the street-wise types loitering in the parking lot.) We were debating the pro’s and con’s of bailing out, but we were really tired and well, “it’s only for one night…”

After using the key card to gain access, the room was starkly bright and sparsely furnished—but there in the center of the room was a nice king-sized bed that beckoned my name. Now in all fairness, the room was indeed clean as far as I could see, although nothing could hide the age of neither the bathroom fixtures nor the scratched and chipped motel furniture. The TV was an older model 19” dwarfed by the TV armoire, and I was surprised by the plastic ice bucket and cello-wrapped 5oz plastic cups on what looked like an over grown tip tray. Even the phones were vintage classics (but indeed they worked).

I grabbed the ice bucket and decided to search out some ice (I already had a couple left-over cans of Diet Coke in my luggage). “Search” was indeed what I did. I asked two people I saw initially, they just shrugged their shoulders and uttered something in Spanish. I walked the perimeter of our building and the one next to it—nothing. Eventually I found the pool area (how depressing) and spotted the lights of a vending machine. Ahh—bingo! Thankfully I had my access card—you needed it to insert it before getting ice. How strange.

Shortly thereafter, I’d settled into the room, had my coke fix, fiddled with the TV and gave up on the lousy reception, and opted for retiring. The first thing I realized was the traffic noise, apparently my building faced one of the main roads exiting the airport area—a constant ebb and flow of cars, trucks, etc. This would take some getting used to. Shortly thereafter, during a lull from the traffic, I heard loud voices and people clomping up the stairs (I heard everyone that came or went that night). Soon the door in the adjoining unit slammed shut, and I became aware of how thin the walls were. You could hear their conversation.

Actually, they were apparently discussing some unfinished business—as in consummating the transaction. It appeared there was some significant re-negotiation happening—and it apparently wasn’t going too well. The voices got louder, “What the fuck do you think I am, anyway?” he roared. (One would have thought he already knew?)

“Ah, come on. All right, all right! As long as you’re here, how’s about just a blowjob then—all I got’s twenty bucks left!” (Okay, maybe he’d taken him out for a burger first?)

“I said FIFTY—you son-of-a-bitch!” (Yeah, he’s a high class boy!)

“Ya don’t have ‘ta put yerself down like that…baby!”

He’d blown his negotiation—and “blown” didn’t figure into the equation any longer. I heard a slap followed by a thump and, “Asshole—I’m getting’ the fuck outta here! You ain’t EVEN gonna be able to pick up trash when I get through with you!” (Geeze I’d a thought he done that already. Dumb bitch’s diggin’ his own holes.)

I didn’t hear anything for several more seconds and just as I was getting worried about the silence (as in “Silence of the Lambs”?) I heard the door open and slam shut. I just had to peek out through the draperies. There he (bitch-for-hire) was, big-chested brute—his top barely buttoned—shoes in hand. Hair black as coal, slicked but a mess, and his white shirt smudged to hell. (I thought Halloween was last month!) He—(it) walked right past my room and vantage point—he had to in order to traipse down the stairs. (Actually it was more like trip ‘n stagger). At the bottom he stopped and put what looked like a credit card in his sissyclutch bag.

I was thankful my room was dark, so he’d not seen me peering through the tasteless rubber lined blackout draperies. I watched him stand there, apparently contemplating his next move, when I heard the door slam shut again. There he was—clad only in his underwear—and stretched to hell—he still had a boner! The guy was probably in his late forties or early fifties and a sad sight for tired eyes. His scraggly grey head probably hadn’t seen a barber in months, but matched nicely with the 3-5 day stubble he sported. Speaking of sporting…he was athletic for his age—nice build, no fat to speak of—and very well endowed—judging from the size of the package filling his jockey shorts to the point of eminent failure.

“What you got, bitch? What’d ‘ya take of mine?” He now was standing at the top of the stairs—right opposite my window now—flailing his fist at him. The buns of his flat ass were shaking as he shook his fist (actually make that no ass).

Bitch-for-hire just stood their taunting him for a few seconds. I was anxiously waiting to see if he went down the stairs after him. Then “bitch for hire” took out the card he’d put in his bag and began to waive it at him. It was then that “bright eyes” realized the card was his room key. Lights came on and his attitude changed, “Please Harold, come on back… I’ll make it up to ‘ya! Y’all wouldn’t leave me like this! Come on Harry, it’s gettin’ cold…just you look at me!”

He did—and I did. If I’d been him—I’d run like hell! However, that’s just what he did—marched brazenly right up the stairs, keeping at least three steps between them. Guess maybe “bitch for hire” saw his woody and figured he had him where he wanted him—beholding—well holding at least.

“An just watta’ you goin’ to be doin’ fer me, Clyde?” He reached forward and caught ole Clyde by the handle.

Apparently his sudden move caught him unaware and he let out a yelp. Probably felt some nails dig in to cockzilla. “Urrrr… okay, you win… forty-three it’s all I got tonight I swear it—just check my wallet if’n you don’t believe me! Damn it Harold—damn you!”

Harry believed him I guess, but he didn’t let go of his equipment until he’d passed the top of the stairs. Guess bitch figured if’n he decided to push him down; he’d take him with him to the bottom. Clyde then drew him to him and pawed at his front while they made some sort of crab walk back to their doorway. They disappeared from view, but I heard the door slam shut. This was followed minutes later by loud thumps—rhythmic—traveling through our common wall behind my TV cabinet.

In less than three minutes…Harold was apparently seein’ stars! “Oh yeah babe…oooooh….yesssss… Fuck yeah… Omygod…good god…yesss. You’re so BIG… Now, oh yeah… ram me…all the way. Quit fuckin’ with me…give it to me ‘ya big oaf!

I was wide awake now and staring at a black screen TV—no picture…but oh did we have sound! Old Clyde and his copulating cunt went at it full tilt for better than a half-hour! What stamina! I heard every three and four letter expletive I’d known…and some other ones I doubted were listed even in Roget’s Thesaurus!

I realized I was getting excited myself… Well if you can’t fight ‘em… I took care of business. Guess it was damn near 2 AM when things quieted down and I drifted off to sleep.

The phone shattered my relative solitude shortly after 6 AM. “How do you get hot water? I’m getting nothing but cold water!” my associate was asking.

Great! Just what else can go wrong? “Let me try here and I’ll call you back.” I checked out the shower. The knobs were tightened down by someone strong as a vice. The back lever directed tub or shower, and once the dial was turned sufficiently to the right (should have been the left—the damn things were reversed—so were the faucets), there was the hot water. I called back my compatriot’s room number and so advised.

“Let’s get the hell out of here and go to breakfast.” I couldn’t have agreed more.

Just as I was getting ready to hit the shower, I hear… “Harold, oh yeah…suck it Harold… You’re the best…the absolute best!”

I couldn’t actually hear Harry’s suction…but apparently bitch was driving ole’ Clyde wild…his head was occasionally banging the headboard into the wall. I looked up at my TV…it was now way off-center in the cabinet.

I took my shower, dressed, packed, and dialed the room numbers of my business associates. We were out of there 15 minutes later.

This Ho Jo’s also had this goofy rule threatening a $10 charge if you didn’t return your room key-card to the front desk upon checkout. (Maybe that might have been running through Clyde’s mind when he upped his offer to Harold--either way a wise if not necessary move on his part).

I gave the three key cards to the morning manager on duty, and advised him just what I thought of his establishment! Then I spotted the lobby house phone. I couldn’t resist. I called my source of entertainment’s room number. The phone was picked up.

I yelled out, “H A R O L D—Harry... You’re the best!”