My first proper client (by proper I suppose I mean after Seamus hooked me) was a bloke who called himself Eamon. Whether or not that was his real name is both unclear and meaningless to me. He gave me €300, and then and thereon that was all that really mattered.

At 11:37 he got me into his car and drove to his house in the Southside over the Liffey. His wife was out for the day, kids at school – And I wouldn't know he'd got wife and kids just looking at his gaf, 'cause I hadn't been brought up in either of the most typical of family homes. No. I couldn't guess that easy. Not yet anyway.

"My wife's out for the day," he explained, going over O'Connell Bridge, "Kids are at school. Ay... I'd say they were a wee bit younger than you... How old are you, lad?"

"17," I lied. Couldn't risk losing €300 now.

"No you're not," he laughed, shaking his head at the rear-view mirror, "You're underage."

So he smacked his lips as he pulled into his drive in Allen Park Road. I hesitated and dived when he open the backseat door, I stumbled when I stood on his doorstep and I trembled with apprehension when he pushed open the door and took us both inside.

"Make sure you wipe your feet on the mat," he warned me.

I did, once, but my shoes weren't dirty. His were brand new.

"Ahh..." he took off his coat after a moment's thinking, "I can't give you anything, I'm afraid..." and then removed his shoes and put them under the table; "Best come straight through to the bedroom."

Ooh, you randy dog. Then I guess I must have followed him like an over-eager puppy.

"So..." he said, standing in the unusually cluttered blue room, "What are you going to do?"

I looked at him, startled. That was for me to decide?

"Well..." I said, quietly, "I've got a book here."

"A book?"

I pulled it out of my coat pocket. "Yeah. It's got pictures in it." Maybe treat it like a catalogue.

"I'm not your daddy," he said, and then acted like he wished he hadn't. He took the book from me, and scanned it, brows raising at points, frowning or squinting at others. "...So this is what poofs do."

"Just take your pick," I suggested, wondering if I should go nearer to him, "I'll do pretty much anything."

He turned a page and his eyes widened in shock. "Jasus. You've got pluck."

But it seemed he'd made up his mind. He shut the book on the throwover and started to unbutton his shirt. I took a deep breath and followed suit.

68 seconds later he was sat in his boxers on the edge of the bed, and I was in my boy shorts in front of him.

"Okay..." he said, breathing heavily already, "Just take it easy first."

I knew the drill. I lowered myself down with my hands on his thighs, teasing down his boxers and ruffling his pubes with my breath. He was small; 5.4". Lucky. Then I took his stepped shaft in my hands, cocked, pulled, and sucked.

He took it for a minute.

"Wait," he said, and pushed me away in a sudden rush to get up, "Let me... Let me make some coffee."

I sat back on my haunches and sucked my gums while I waited. Not bad for a second attempt, I'd thought. I was even starting to breathe normally. He came back with the smell of strong coffee and a head full of too much caffeine, and sat back down rubbing his eyes.

He hesitated. I waited.

"Here..." he beckoned; "Kiss me."

I kissed him.

He drew back breathing heavily.

He decided: "Properly."

So I gave him a taste of my mouth and his cock and all those old bedroom smells, and he lapped them up, pushed me down, sucked my throat and pulled my pants over my hips.

I put my hands out. "Have you got any lube?"

He stared at me, frozen, then sighed and slid off the bed, cock high, brow tense and sweaty. He rifled through the drawer in the bedside table for a tin of Vaseline, struggled with the ever vexing task of opening it, dug in and proceeded to fist me until I let up to him.

Then he dove in, his thrusts half-assured and experimental, his sucking incessant, his eyes wide under his plastered hair, nervous sweat raining down his back.

And I smiled to myself over his shoulder. I took it like a pro: the burn, the gentle stretch, the blunt internal stabbing.

And I was just beginning to wish I'd had another bifter before I went with him when he very suddenly came: crying out, drilling me into the headboard with one final lurch.

Then he rolled off of me, panting damp into the pillow.

I managed my breathing. My arms were tight over my head. I scanned, sweaty and blurry-eyed, the over-stuffed closet, the desperate shelves, the embellished, groaning floor, the issues of Out and Vulcan, the baby blue.

"Thank you."

A House In DublinRead this story for FREE!