Muscular Man for Rent Read online

  Muscular Man for Rent

  by

  Emeric Varady

  Translated from the Hungarian

  by

  Sandor Vass

  Copyright © 2014 Emeric Varady

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for the use of brief excerpts in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published by: Emeric Varady

  Cover design by: Lajos Nagy

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Translator’s Note

  Chapter One: Train Station Cruising

  Chapter Two: A Private Posing Session

  Chapter Three: Turnabout is Fair Play

  Previews of My Personal Guest Poser and My Muscle Mentors

  Also by Emeric Varady

  About the Author

  Emeric Varady is the pseudonym of a Hungarian bodybuilder, model, escort, and actor in adult videos.

  A native of Debrecen (which is Hungary’s second largest city, after Budapest), Varady was a natural athlete from an early age. He began pumping iron and entering physique competitions while he was still in his teens. While serving a stint in the Hungarian military, he was also recruited by Hungary’s adult film industry, and he began appearing in both gay and straight videos. He now works for several European studios, and he has made guest appearances in England and in the United States.

  While pursuing his “day job,” as an apparently conservative, buttoned-down office worker, he also continues to train for physique contests, pose for photographers, provide escort services, and appear in adult videos. His friends have encouraged him to try his hand at fiction writing. They gave Emeric the classic beginner writer’s advice, “Write about what you know.” In his case, that is obviously muscles … and sex. The two things seem to go together, after all!

  Varady currently resides in Budapest, with his partner, who is also a well-known bodybuilder on the European physique circuit, and who has made forays into adult video work. Hungary does not yet recognize gay marriage, but same-sex couples can register domestic partnerships.

  Translator’s Note

  Hungarian is a language rich in distinctive idioms, including slang, swear words, and assorted vulgarisms. Where these occur in Mr. Varady’s manuscript, I have attempted to find their American English equivalents. Occasionally, the original Hungarian word or phrase is too flavorful to resist; in these instances, the original is retained, with a translation or paraphrase provided in brackets. A typical example is az isten faszát! (literally, “the Lord’s penis!”), which is among the many terms that Hungarians use as an all-purpose epithet, in much the same way that English speakers employ such monosyllables as “damn,” “hell,” “shit,” and “fuck.”

  For the convenience of English-speaking readers, all figures given in the manuscript in metric measurement units have been converted to their approximate English system counterparts, occasionally rounded off for the sake of simplicity.

  As of this writing, Hungary has not yet adopted the euro. Therefore the official Hungarian currency is still the forint, and its subdivision, the fillér. Currency exchange rates are always subject to fluctuation. Any approximate values in United States dollars given in the text were representative at the time of the translation, i.e., 2014.

  Chapter One: Train Station Cruising

  My home town, Debrecen, may be the second largest city in Hungary, after Budapest. But that doesn’t tell the whole story. The population of Budapest is nine times that of Debrecen. That’s a huge difference. The irony is that the Hungarian countryside is dotted with cities and towns even smaller than Debrecen—to say nothing of tiny, isolated rural communities. To the residents of these outlying areas, we’re the metropolis!

  My friends often asked me why I didn’t move to Budapest, to seek my fortune there. That was the long-term ambition of a lot of young Hungarian men. I won’t say that I wasn’t tempted. But it was cheaper to live in Debrecen. And Budapest, after all, was less than three hours away by train. It was easy to travel there, for a weekend or a holiday. This enabled me to sample life in the bigger, more cosmopolitan city, without committing myself to its higher cost of living, or the competition for housing and jobs.

  Among Budapest’s undeniable attractions was its active and varied gay scene. There were bars, clubs, restaurants, and bathhouses—even hotels—which catered to the local gay population, and to the tourist trade. There were public spaces which everyone knew were cruising areas, some more discreet and safe than others. And a gay man who was willing to pay for sex would have no difficulty finding a male prostitute in Budapest. There were call boys who advertised on the Internet or in gay publications, and hustlers who worked the streets and the gay-friendly bars and other establishments.

  I wasn’t exactly a male prostitute—or so I flattered myself. After all, I didn’t hustle full time. I had a “real” day job, in an office in downtown Debrecen. In my spare time, I was a dedicated bodybuilder, who put in long, hard hours down at my gym. I entered physique competitions, and I had begun to acquire a certain reputation in Hungarian bodybuilding circles. I’d even competed, successfully, in contests held in Budapest, and in other countries in Eastern Europe. At the time of my story, I was the kind of young bodybuilder who was labeled “young and promising” or “upcoming.” (There were times, I have to admit, when fulfilling the promise still seemed a long way off; and the rest of the way up still looked as though it was going to be a long haul.)

  I supplemented my income from my nine-to-five job by working as a part-time instructor at my gym, training other members by appointment, one-on-one. I also advertised myself as a masseur—yes, that kind of a “masseur!”—operating out of my apartment. I did some freelancing as a “fitness model,” posing for photographers who needed, or wanted, a muscular model. Sometimes I posed with my shirt off; sometimes I posed in just a bathing suit, gym shorts, or posing trunks—and sometimes I posed in the nude. I had no inhibitions about baring my body or flexing my muscles, and I was a bit of an exhibitionist. I soon assembled quite a portfolio of photos of myself, many of them extremely revealing and sexually suggestive.

  The next logical step was turning the occasional trick, to help balance my budget whenever I needed some extra money. I saw nothing immoral in it. I had a strong sex drive, and I didn’t believe in denying myself pleasure and satisfaction. I couldn’t see any real difference between going out on a weekend night, cruising the bars, and going home with a complete stranger, for what could quite possibly be only a one-night stand—as opposed to agreeing to have sex with complete strangers, for money. I wasn’t bad-looking, if I do say so myself; and, thanks to my rigorous weight training, I had a very good body (that’s not immodesty on my part—I am merely stating a fact.) These were assets, which deserved to be exploited. If I was going to be promiscuous, I might as well get paid for it!

  I made a firm rule
of not turning more than one trick a night, and not working more than two or three nights each week. Anything more would start interfering with my day jobs, and—more importantly—with my gym schedule. (Of course, there were times when avarice got the better of me, and then I violated my own rules.)

  I soon had more business than I could handle. I had a group of regular clients, either men who lived in Debrecen or who came there frequently on business. Gay foreigners, planning a trip to the city for business or pleasure, often booked me well in advance. Many of the gentlemen I serviced were very pleasant. They often wanted more than just sex; they’d take me out to dinner, or out on the town, to show me off as their companion in gay venues. I found myself honing my skills as a sort of gay tour guide, showing visitors what Debrecen and its environs had to offer—and ultimately, of course, showing them what I had to offer, between the sheets on a bed!

  I wasn’t turning tricks in order to support a drug habit, or anything like that. And so I became a rather selective whore. If a john was physically repulsive, was a drunk or a druggie, made exorbitant demands, or was otherwise obnoxious, I didn’t hesitate to refuse to date him again. The money wasn’t worth the hassle, and there were plenty of nice guys who were willing to pay for my services. I often steered the undesirable johns—my rejects—toward a couple of my bodybuilder buddies from the gym. My friends were grateful to get the business; and, although I didn’t actually demand that they give me a cut, they never hesitated to return the favor, when I asked them to do something for me.

  In short, I was probably one of Debrecen’s half dozen or so most successful male masseurs, hustlers, and escorts. One thing I can say in my favor—I wasn’t greedy. I was content with my lot, and I didn’t spend a lot of my time thinking about how I might rake even more money.

  I preferred to be a big fish in a small pond. In Budapest, I’d be just another minnow, swimming around in the lake. And a lake full of hungry predators, at that!

  Debrecen, like Budapest, had its public cruising areas, albeit on a more modest scale. Everybody knew that one of the best pickup spots was the main train station. We Eastern Europeans travel by train whenever possible—it’s convenient, and economical. In a city such as Debrecen, the trains run at all hours, day and night. Naturally, the station is more crowded at some times than others. But there are always people waiting there, or coming and going.

  The really heavy, quick and dirty, cruising goes on in the men’s rooms—not just the men’s rooms in the train station itself, but in the nearby bars, cafés, and restaurants that service the rail passengers. But, as I’ve previously mentioned, I was a comparatively stuck-up, fastidious kind of a whore. I didn’t like to cruise the toilets. When I didn’t have a prearranged date, but I wanted to make some quick cash, I’d take the bus to the train station and just hang out there, pretending that I was either waiting for a train, or meeting somebody who would soon be arriving on one.

  The station had uniformed security guards, of course, who patrolled at random. A dumb or careless male whore might be too obvious about loitering, or he might do something else to call attention to himself; and then the uniformed “railway cops” might roust him. I was a whore, all right, but I wasn’t dumb or careless. I often carried either my gym bag or a backpack as a prop, to suggest that I was traveling. I made a point of carrying a timetable in my pocket. If an official approached me, I had my identification to show him; and, if he asked me what I was doing there in the station, I had my story already prepared. I was waiting for such-and-such a train going to such-and-such a place, although I hadn’t bothered to buy my ticket yet. Or I was waiting for a friend of mine to arrive from such-and-such a place. He’d called me on my cell phone to warn me that he’d missed the train he’d originally planned to take, so I’d decided to just stick around there at the station, waiting for the later one he was actually on.

  But, in fact, I was rarely challenged, or asked to explain my presence. On these excursions, I took pains to cultivate a wholesome, though undeniably athletic, appearance. I dressed in a way that showed off my physique, without being too whorish about it. I did my best to pass for just another big, dumb, harmless, muscular young jock, who had legitimate business there at the station.

  Johns had their individual ways of approaching a guy like me and soliciting him for sex. Some were bolder than others. Interestingly enough, very few of the men who accosted me at the train station expected to pick up me up and have sex with me for free. Some instinct told them I was for rent—by the hour, or for the whole night, depending on the price they were willing to pay.

  Men often approached me, asking for directions. Did I live here in Debrecen? Oh, good. Did I know where a certain address, or intersection, or square, was located? (These inquiries often came from men who’d lived in the city all their lives, and who knew the answer perfectly well.) More aggressive men might ask me if I’d ever heard of a certain gay bar, or bathhouse, and whether I could tell them how to get there, and what it was like. After this kind of a conversational ice breaker, it was usually only a short step to negotiating terms for sex.

  I was always careful never to make the first overt move. Let them come to me—and come on to me!—first. As a general rule, our cops in Debrecen had more important things to do than work undercover, out of uniform, trying to entrap discreet male prostitutes plying their trade. The police tended to concentrate their efforts on more visible, blatant criminals. But I didn’t want to risk getting busted.

  Let me tell you about one of more memorable experiences as a hustler. You may find it interesting—if not necessarily edifying!

  It was a hot, humid night late in the summer. Debrecen is located on the broad, flat eastern plain of Hungary, and the summer temperatures could get quite warm, even after dark.

  I’d taken a crosstown bus directly to the station, after my evening workout at the gym. I had my gym bag with me, and now I utilized it as a prop. I’d found a good spot in which to loiter, on one of the platforms. With my gym bag at my feet, I was leaning back against a wall, on which various posters and bills were displayed.

  I yawned, crossing my heavily muscled, sun-bronzed arms across my chest. Even though I was lightly clad—intentionally, of course—I could feel myself perspiring freely in the muggy night air. The thin cotton T-shirt stretched taut over my torso had developed damp sweat spots under my arms, in the small of my back, and where it strained in the front over my big pectoral muscles. The fabric clung to me, and I couldn’t have asked for a more provocative visual effect had I planned it ahead of time. That increasingly sweat-sodden T-shirt was worth its weight in gold as it displayed my weight-trained, bulked-up body, attracting potential johns. Like moths to a flame, as the saying goes.

  And, I hoped, the picture I was presenting would soon attract that one guy I was waiting for, that evening. I didn’t know what he’d look like, or what his name or occupation might be. But I did know what I wanted him to do for me. He was the lucky guy who would drain the ache in my balls with his hot mouth or ass, or both, relieving my accumulated sexual aggression after a couple of days of abstinence. Better yet, from my point of view—he was going to pay me for sex.

  I wasn’t going to have to fake it. Not tonight! I was horny. Cruising the city’s outdoor pickup spots in such a deliberate manner wasn’t my usual style. But tonight I was definitely and unashamedly out on the prowl.

  A few minutes passed. I received my share of admiring glances from some of the men who walked past me, and even from a couple of women who were bolder than most. But no one took the bait/

  I was beginning to think—facetiously—that I ought to get a T-shirt with custom printing on the chest. The lettering could say something like Hire This Body or Muscular Man for Rent. After all, it always paid to advertise!

  Then I spotted a likely prospect. He was about fifteen feet away from me. Like me, he was just standing there on the platform. I’d developed a sixth sense about such things, and my instinct told me that he wasn’t wa
iting for a train to pull in. He was loitering, as I was, and trying not to be too obvious about it.

  I gave him the once-over. And then, because I liked what I was, I gave him the twice-over.

  He was young—about my own age. That was my only misgiving. The young ones usually don’t have to pay for it, or they don’t want to. I’d actually had guys who were enrolled at the University of Debrecen ask me if I gave student discounts!

  This dude, at least, looked as though he had plenty of disposable income. He was nicely dressed in a cream-colored summer-weight linen suit, with a pale pink dress shirt under it, accessorized with an eye-catching silk tie, patterned in lime green and hot pink stripes. He had expensive-looking light brown leather shoes, immaculately polished, on his feet.

  It’s possible for a man to be too well groomed and too well dressed, to the point that he looks like he’s posing for a fashion spread in some upscale men’s magazine. But this guy was able to carry the look off. He seemed very much at his ease. Some men have a way of carrying themselves that projects self-confidence—and self-confidence which they bring into the bedroom, as well as to the board room at their work. This guy had that.

  I liked his looks. To put it bluntly, I’d have been willing to fuck him, for free! I was almost tempted to go up to him, engage him in conversation, and—if he seemed receptive—offer him a freebie. But I restrained myself. My curiosity was piqued. I wanted to find out whether he was merely window-shopping, or if he might be interested in buying.

  I knew the effect my hot fucking pumped up muscle stud body could have on other men.

  I could almost feel the young number’s eyes on me, studying me, sizing me up—fantasizing about the hot, heavy time my body could give him in bed. I glanced down casually and I felt a certain lewd satisfaction at the way the thick bulge of my cock protruded so blatantly against the front of my tight, faded jeans. Not wearing undershorts or a jockstrap really emphasized the way the worn, soft denim clung to my hips and ass and thighs—and to my dick, which was dripping at the tip with pre-cum, so that it was almost glued to the cloth covering my basket. Even from across the distance that separated us, and in the dark, I was sure that the other young stud could see exactly how well I was hung. Hell, in those jeans I was wearing, he’d probably already noticed that I wasn’t cut!