Country Boys, page 12
And he was a hard worker, not lazy or complaining like some of the other boys I’ve had working for me. He did everything exactly as he was told and hardly spoke a word all morning. Didn’t complain once about the heat in the barn, which, even for me, was stifling. I worked close by, mind you, to make sure Jason was doing things right. Whenever he squatted to plug the milkers on a cow, his crack peeked out over the top of his jeans, wooly and wet, soaking a line through his work pants.
While Jason was working on Daisy Beth, he asked me to come over and check out her teats. “They seem to be bleeding,” Jason said. I went over and squatted beside him. I leaned into him until our shoulders touched, pretending to need a better look.
“Yeah, she’s bleeding, all right,” I said. “Happens a lot from these damned machines.” I had the bag balm in my coveralls. As I spread the ointment on the cow’s teats, Jason was standing beside me, his ass within striking distance. It took God-given strength not to drop the balm and go to work on that ass instead.
“Shit man, you’re really sweating,” I said as I finished up on Daisy Beth’s teats. “Am I working you too hard?”
Jason shook his head. “Fuck no. I’m good.” He caught a bead of sweat as it trickled from his furry armpit.
“Let’s take a break. It’s almost lunchtime anyhow.”
We went to my office at the back of the barn, where I take care of the business end of running the farm. I cleared the papers off an old armchair and gestured for Jason to take a seat. “Don’t mind the mess,” I said. “The fan only half works and it’s louder than hell, so I won’t bother turning it on.” I had two ice-cold beers in the fridge. “This should cool us down a bit.”
We sat there sweating, chugging the beers, neither one of us saying a word. The long muscles in Jason’s throat pulsated as he swallowed. Humidity and sexual tension were thick in the air. “I don’t know about you,” I finally said, “but I definitely need to get out of these sweaty clothes. I’m soaked, man.” I went over and shut the office door. I stripped down to my boxers and sat down again with my beer. Jason looked a little surprised. He hesitated for a minute, playing with his beer can, turning it around in his hand, before he reached down and unbuttoned his pants. He wasn’t wearing underwear, and his dick was already on the swell. It flopped out of his fly like a big bull’s cock. He stepped out of his pants and stood there for a minute, making a show of his body, and I was the happy audience.
“Nice dick.” Jason was thick and uncut. He looked down at his cock and gave it a tug. “Turn around so I can see your ass.”
Jason grinned, then turned around without saying anything. He stood there with his hands on his hips. Jason had a small four-leaf clover tattooed on his butt, his asscheeks covered in the same fine hair as his chest. His ass was packed full of muscle. The hair caught the sunlight that was streaming in through cracks in the barn wall. I stopped cranking my dick, too close to unloading in my boxers.
“You ever done this before?” I asked, standing up behind him now.
Jason shook his head. “Just once when I was drunk.” I nudged him on the back and he leaned forward against the bar fridge. He reached behind and opened his ass so I could get a good look at his sweet, wet hole.
“Fucking beautiful ass, man.”
I dove right in with my tongue. It’d been a year since I tasted ass, and Jason’s was worth the wait: raunchy and delicious. Jason was pushing back into my face, moving his hips around like his ass was on fire.
“Oh…that feels awesome,” he said. I reached through his legs and squeezed his tight, loaded balls.
I was a hungry man, and Jason was groaning like he was about to split in two as I ate his hole. The kid could make a lot of noise. Out in the barn, one of the cows in heat was bawling up a storm. It was like she was calling back to Jason, who was equally horny and bothered. I pulled apart his cheeks and started fingering his tight, pink ring, circling it with my thumb. Jason was burning up, sweat rolling down his spine and into the crack of his ass.
“Try going inside,” he said quietly like somebody besides me might hear. After juicing up his hole with a spitball, I tried one finger, then two. On two, he gasped and arched his back. “That hurts a little,” he said. I grabbed the dusty tube of Vaseline out of my desk, and I tried again. Soon he was begging for three fingers. “Oh shit, yeah…that feels great. Go a little deeper.”
Jason was ready to ride now, his body shuddering as I opened his meaty hole with my fingers. My dick bobbed in anticipation. I put in a fourth finger and Jason started begging to get plowed. He reached back and grabbed my dick, guiding it raw into his hole. Between him and the cow, I almost didn’t hear the truck coming up the lane. I wasn’t inside him ten seconds before Jason blew his whole load of cream on the office floor.
When Larry came into the office, Jason and I were dressed again. I’d thrown some old newspapers over Jason’s puddle of jizz on the floor. Jason was sitting in the musty armchair in his pants and no shirt, flushed, finishing his beer.
“Just dropped by to see how you boys are makin’ out,” Larry said, looking at me suspiciously. Jizz lingered in the air. “Quite a hot one for your first day Jason.”
“Yeah, it gets really frigging hot in the barn. It’s hard work, but I’m liking it so far.”
“He’s doing a great job, Larry.”
Larry looked at me. “No complaints?”
“None yet.” I smiled at him.
Larry hung around in the office for a few minutes, looking around at things as we stood there, awkwardly shooting the breeze. Then he went on his way into town. As his pickup was going down the lane, Jason and I were already back to doing chores. The kid didn’t say a word for the rest of the day. He was serious and worked even harder than he did in the morning, the ass of his pants soaked through. When the milking was done and the cows were back in pasture, I showed him cleanup procedures, and we called it a day.
“You did a great job today,” I said, giving him a jock slap on the butt. “Coming back tomorrow?”
“For sure,” he said, smiling at me. “If that’s okay?”
“We got lots more to do around here,” I said. “I’ll see you at six sharp.”
Jason jumped on his bike, and I watched that unforgettable ass as he rode like hell down the lane, throwing a trail of dust behind him. When he reached the road, Jason looked back at me and waved. Tomorrow’s forecast was for an even hotter day in the county.
WELL WISHING
Steve Berman
The salesman tasted the dust in the air streaming through the open windows as he drove down the dirt road. The Ford Fairlane’s faulty air-conditioning, wheezing, failed to chill the interior against a blinding August sun. The right front tire popped suddenly. The car shuddered, especially the steering wheel. The salesman cursed as he guided the sedan to the side of the road.
Outside, he bent down on ailing knees to look at the flat tire. His bright red tie hung like a panting dog’s tongue in the heat of the late day. He cursed more on his way to the trunk. There had to be a spare somewhere underneath the sample boxes. But he couldn’t find one.
He remembered passing a farmhouse. They’d have a phone, though he’d rather have a faucet to splash cold water over his head. He took his briefcase and suit jacket, out of habit. He didn’t bother locking the car; if someone wanted to come along and take the plumbing supply brochures and sales charts, he was welcome to do so. Few clients had this season. He rolled up the sleeves of his damp dress shirt and began walking.
There once was a lonely farmer’s son who visited the heads of his lovers in an old wishing well.
The salesman knocked on the farmhouse door. The wooden boards of the porch creaked underneath his feet. A gruff and grim face peered out when the door opened slightly.
“You look like a feller that sells somethin’.” The man looked ready to spit from tobacco-stained lips.
“No, wait.” The salesman reached out and the palm of his hand smacked against the closing door. “My car broke down a mile from here. I just want to use your phone.”
A softer, gentler voice spoke from somewhere behind the man. “Pa, let the poor man in.” Thick fingers with brightly painted nails reached around and pulled the door aside.
The salesman offered his Closing Grin, the most sincere expression in his limited repertoire. The frowning old man remained blocking the threshold. A young girl beside him, shorter and stouter but very pretty with long blonde hair, took hold of one of the farmer’s overall straps and pulled him back.
“Forgive Pa. He likes them canvassers ’bout as much as he does Eisenhower.” She reached out and took the salesman’s arm. Her strong grip guided him into a parlor. Dust motes danced in the shreds of sunlight from open windows.
“I’ll bring you a glass of iced lemonade.” She pushed him down onto the tufted sofa. His rump felt an inch or so of padding before reaching the hard wood backing. He immediately missed the sedan’s front seat, which felt like an opulent throne in comparison.
The old man leaned into the parlor’s doorway. “Kids are trustin’. Too trustin’ for my likin’. What’s wrong with the car?”
“Flat tire.”
“George can tow ya into town. Has a plum garage.”
The girl returned with a sweating glass. She leaned down farther than necessary, offering a view of her bosom. The salesman made sure to reach for the glass with his left hand, mindful to show off the gold wedding ring. The girl took notice and her lips puckered. After the salesman took a sip his did too. He managed to force a slight smile. “The phone?” Half his voice seemed lost after swallowing.
“In the kitchen,” said the farmer.
“Stay for dinner,” said the daughter.
They led the salesman to where a black Bakelite beast hung on the wall. It looked like the misbegotten child of the iron stove across the room.
Whenever he could, the farmer’s son would sneak out of the house or away from his chores and go to the well. He had found it years ago, overgrown and empty, the faded Wishing Well sign on the ground. Three heads bobbed in the dark water now. He knew them well. The first belonged to the neighbor’s boy. It was the favorite of the farmer’s son, who would often comb the wet curly hair away from blue eyes. The second had been an accident. He shouldn’t have been drinking with his sister Claire’s beau that night. The third and most recent head had such heavy jowls often only the thick lips and dimpled chin would surface and gulp air. The local Justice of the Peace, now just pieces.
The mechanic annoyed the salesman, but conveyed the sense that yes, he would tow the car and yes, he would change the tire, and for an extra fee and some extra time, could fix the air-conditioning.
That meant the salesman would have to find someplace to spend the night. He opened his wallet to the farmer. He had no idea if the farmer even knew who Andrew Jackson was. “I could sleep on your sofa if you don’t have a spare bed.” Though he instantly regretted the idea. The floorboards or the dirt outside might be softer. Out of the corner of his eye, the salesman caught a glimpse of the daughter twirling a lock of hair around her fingers.
The back screen door opened and a short young man walked into the kitchen. The rivulets of sweat that ran down his forehead and neck streaked dirty skin. A few tufts of dried grass clung to close-cropped hair. Like the old farmer, he wore overalls, but nothing else.
He snatched the glass of lemonade the salesman had set down. He drained it in one long drink. Drops of condensation fell onto the top of his chest, mixing with the sweat to reveal tanned skin under caked dust.
The salesman found himself staring. Habit made him twist the warm gold ring around and around on his finger.
“My boy,” said the farmer with a grunt.
“Dan.” The young man had curving wet lips. “You sellin’ somethin’?”
“No.” The salesman found his mouth dry. He regretted not getting more of the sour lemonade. “Just had a bit of car trouble.”
“Trouble happens a lot around here.” Dan wiped his forehead clear with the glass.
His sister punched him in the arm. “No need to be rude.”
The farmer snatched the twenty-dollar bill from the salesman’s hand. “We got an extra room. Belonged to Gran before she passed. You can sleep there.”
Without another word, Dan returned to the outdoors, which made sense to the salesman; the young man looked like a wild thing. The girl began to putter about the kitchen, taking down pots and pans, reaching into the humming refrigerator. She gave the salesman a wink when she bent over to add wood to the stove.
The salesman followed after the farmer, up creaking stairs and down a dark hallway to the last room. It looked like no one had been inside in decades. The salesman sneezed twice at the smell of must and age. A faded quilt covered the bed.
“Even though I took your money, know I’ll be listenin’. Beds squeak in this house,” said the farmer.
“Sorry?”
“I mean to have my daughter Claire married to the right man, not some slick. You even think of payin’ her a midnight visit and I’ll introduce you to the other members of the house. Holland and Holland.”
The salesman laid a hand on the bed. The rise of disturbed dust was accompanied by a cry of protest from the springs. “That would be a gun, I take it?”
The farmer nodded. “My beloved. Spits better than me.” But the man still hawked his throat clear to land a brownish gob near the salesman’s loafers.
The farmer’s son knew that the heads in the well were his only friends. He would slip through the thick brush that surrounded the well and sit next to the cool stone walls, one hand draped over the side so his fingers could splash the water. He would call out to the heads and they would rise to the surface. The first, his first love too, came quickest, rising like a pink champagne bubble. Then his sister’s boyfriend, and finally, after many taps on the surface, Justice. As he talked, they would smack their lips, reminding him of hungry pet goldfish he had won as a child one county fair. Those had died real quick, but not the heads. Sometimes, if the son leaned in far enough and brought his ear close to them, he could hear them weakly speak his name and ask for favors. Mostly the heads wanted company.
After thirty years selling plumbing supplies throughout the Midwest, the salesman knew his way around bathrooms. The same bad jokes at the annual sales conference in Chicago: beefsteaks, cigars, and the stalls at Union Station men’s room.
He recognized the claw-foot at the farmhouse as a Lang Slipper, model A. In 1941, the tub would have gleamed with fresh, white porcelain over wood; now it looked as dingy as he felt. He turned the faucets. The water spilling out stayed a murky brown while he counted past ten, but remained hot. He tempered it with a splash from the cold water tap.
He stripped off his clothes, leaving his ring and watch on top of the commode. He sat in the tub as it filled, balancing soap on his wide, hairy stomach. The water that rose around the bar became cloudy and the smell of lemongrass reached his nose.
The salesman slipped further down into the tub and dunked his head underneath the water, only for a few seconds that left the world warm and silent but for the slight whoosh of his hands moving through the bath. But when he came up and blinked away the sudsy water, the salesman saw the farmer’s son sitting on the edge of the tub. One overall strap hung undone, exposing a portion of bare chest. The salesman would have been startled but for Dan’s smile.
The young man looked freshly scrubbed, skin almost as golden as his hair from the sun. “Where have you been?”
The salesman didn’t know exactly what answer the young man sought. He shrugged. “Both coasts and lots of nowhere in between.”
“I’ve never left the farm.”
The salesman let his wet hand rise to the tub edge not far from Dan’s leg. One finger had a tan line.
“Always alone?” Dan held up the wedding band between his thumb and forefinger. The ring looked flimsy.
The salesman nodded. “A trick. The world caters to married men.” He slid his hand along the porcelain glaze onto Dan’s thigh. “But I’m not the marrying kind.”
Dan nodded. “I know some tricks.” He opened his mouth wide while leaning his head back. Then he dropped the gold ring in.
“Suppose that was a family heirloom.” The salesman smirked, remembering how he had found the ring many years ago in a demo sink’s P-trap. His first sales call. The client had laughed and wondered if Link & Grant Plumbing Supplies offered prizes, like the treat inside a Cracker Jack box, with every purchase.
“You can try and get it back.” Dan half leaned in, half slid down, his mouth open to show the ring that glittered like a lure on the back of his tongue. The salesman reached out with dripping arms and pulled Dan into the tub. Their faces pressed hard, mouths forceful. The salesman’s tongue sought the ring almost as an afterthought of exploring new territory.
“Haven’t found it yet,” laughed Dan. He splashed more water about while squatting over the salesman and unbuckling the remaining denim strap. His torso had been kissed by sun and youth and now water, which made the skin gleam like bronze fixtures.
“Shhh,” the sound slid out of the salesman like steam. “Your father—”
“Is in bed with the Hollands after visitin’ Jim Beam awhile in the kitchen. He wants you to stay away from my sister. I do too.”
“I promise,” said the salesman, who pressed his mouth back to the young man’s chest. He heard Dan moan slightly and mutter, “It’s best for all of us.”
The farmer’s son leaned over the well’s edge to dip his fingertips in the cool water. Now and then one of the heads would idly bump against his hand. He noticed that the water’s surface dimpled, before realizing tears fell from his face. He wiped his cheeks. The heads in the well were not enough. They could barely whisper. If lifted from the well, they’d become listless. The farmer’s son wanted to hear a man, whether his own name grunted or gently said. He missed the feel of hands upon his body and of touching warm skin, tracing fingers through sweat.
