Infiltrating The Manwhorehouse of Manchester Bay (Chapter 1: A Disconcerting Lack of Smut)

There’s a small town in New York state, called Manchester. And in that small town, there’s a quaint, tiny little neighborhood called Burmingham Square. Burmingham Square is a shopping hub, or what passes for one, in such a small town in the relative middle of nowhere. It’s a delightful little area, don’t get me wrong. I’m from New York City (I know, hold the applause), so I can really appreciate the sweet, quiet little town where everyone knows each other.

That is, aside from the Manwhores. Bare with me.

I’m John, and I’m lucky enough to be a cop in this sleepy, easygoing little town. I transferred here a few years ago, after a small gang of non descript mental patients found it appropriate to ambush a random cop (that would be me), and beat me about the body with crowbars. As my bones knitted over the following months, I had plenty of time to think. And so it is that I found myself patrolling the not so mean streets of Manchester, on a drizzly, cool night. It was two AM, far too late for anyone to be walking the streets, even in the relatively busy area of Burmingham Square, but I was on the clock, and I enjoyed the solitude.

Or I did, until I stumbled across a man. He was in tremendous shape, built like he hits the gym seven days a week, compared to my paltry three. What struck me first is how similar we looked (aside from him having the body of a demigod). We both had short, dark hair. Clean shaven. Dark blue eyes. He was 6’3″, I’m 6’2″. And I may not be as broad as him, but my shoulders, arms, and chest are in pretty good shape. Both about 34 years old (okay, he might be significantly younger). I felt like I was staring into a very flattering mirror. Until he spoke.

In a voice that can only be described as Mike Tyson’s effeminate younger cousin, he told me he was part of a secret, travelling cabal of high end male prostitutes. A sort of cock carnival, these men roam from city to city to sexually pleasure the elite women (and some men) of the world. He was new to the gig, and apparently the dirty dames demand their money back every time he opens his mouth.

“I’m contwacted for one more job,” he pleads, tears in his deep blue eyes. “But I jutht wanna go home, where I’m appwethiated!”

I looked into the man’s eyes, and my heart broke. I am a good man. Not a great man, but a good one. I wanted to help the fellow. And so it is that I put my hand on his meaty shoulder, and said:

“Friend… I will fuck those women for you.”

I arranged to take vacation for the following week, and he took me shopping for a Manwhore appropriate wardrobe. Turns out his name was Tommy, and he’s a sweet guy. Possibly gay. I mean, he knows a lot about clothes. Panics when I mention sex with women. Maybe I’m close minded or something, but… I don’t know, it doesn’t matter.

I shuddered with excitement as my footsteps echoed along the dark alleyway, leading to the described location. One of the last remaining cobblestone roads in the state, I had to be careful not to trip as I walked. This little area was called Lawsuit Lane in the office, and was the culprit of many a broken ankle. Part of me was grateful to have the distraction, as I was finding that I was slightly terrified of the bizarre, unknown situation I was walking into.

I’m going to try and switch places with a male prostitute for a week? What the hell was I thinking? As I stepped over a particularly large hole in the ground (fuck tradition, just fix the damn street), I reminded myself of the ugly truth. I wanted to see if I could get away with it. I’m thirty-four. Not old, but hardly new. My rotator cuff was starting to go on me. My hairline wasn’t quite as magnificent as it once was. My junk still works, hell, some things only get better with age, but still. I had to admit that when I laid eyes on my (only slightly) more attractive doppelganger, I wondered if that could have been me.

Finally, I’m at the location Tommy gave me. Or at least I think it is, the brown, weathered door has no address on it. I reach out and try the knob, half expecting it to be locked. It turns in my hand, and opens. I check my watch, procrastinating. And so it is midnight as I take a deep breath, and step inside the Manwhorehouse of Mandelay Bay.

(To be continued with Chapter 2: Wherein We See Some Genitals Finally)

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/f0cmmg/infiltrating_the_manwhorehouse_of_manchester_bay