Country Boys, page 8
I was home.
GOAT BOY
Jack Fritscher
Volume = Radius x pi x Length
Radius = Circumference ÷ 2
Volume = Circumference ÷ 2 x Length
On the morning of his eighteenth birthday, Giles flipped his hot dick out on the Formica top of the kitchen table. The farmhouse was empty. He was alone. He was stark naked. His balls hung low against the cool table. He ran one hand up his flat belly. He reached down with his other hand and teased the tip of his big cock lying like a white sausage on the red Formica.
His soft tube steak rolled like a beached moby dick. It was alive. It had a mind of its own. It rolled to the left. Then the right. It pushed its head snub into the Formica, hardened, and marched nose onward, untouched by human hands. It had a mind of its own.
He touched the tip again. A pearl of clear gleat wet his finger. He rolled the juice around the head of his meat that was slithering thick and bulbous across the family dinner table. Blue veins wrapped around under white skin. He felt the blood rushing from all over his strong young body to fill the full width and length of his engorging cock.
It was an experiment.
He placed both hands on the white mounds of his hard butt. He pushed into the table. He wanted to make his cock crawl by itself, un-helped by his hands, across the table.
The experiment was working.
The wet head dribbled its whale’s trail of juice, lubing the way for the thick shaft to follow. He was almost fully hard. He pushed his hips into the table. The salt and pepper shakers rocked back and forth. He fucked the table again. His cock took to the pressure and hardened out to its full length.
Within reach, on top of the refrigerator, he had stashed his dad’s sixteen-foot retractable tape measure. It was silver with a yellow circle that read Stanley. Powerlock II. It was the kind of tape measure you pull out and then push a button to make it retract like sharp lightning.
His teencock lay big and hard and ripe on the table.
He reached for the tape measure and set its butt against the blond curly hair of his crotch. The case felt cool against the side of his cock.
Carefully, he pulled the ruler from its case.
One inch. Two. Three.
His dick pulsed and surged on further across the table.
Four. Five. Six.
He knew that was as long as his prick-record had been on his twelfth birthday. He ran his tongue across his lips. He pulled another inch out of the tape. Then another. He touched his chin to his chest, looking down the length of his slender body. His cock jumped when he saw the number nine appear black on the yellow tape. His balls ached for his hand to cup them. His dick begged for a spit-wet hand to stroke it. Heat flushed his face. He tossed his head up like a wild young stallion. He sighed and bit his lips. He looked down at the table. He looked down at his dick. He looked down at the tape measure.
He had more meat to go.
He felt the way he had felt during the Olympics: seeing what it meant to go for the gold. He touched the end of the tape and inched it out slowly, one-fourth, one-half—and then the heavy look of the number ten riding on the yellow tape moving slowly out from the case. “A perfect ten,” he said. And he smiled, pulling the tape just a fraction more, out to the very tip of his rock-hard prick. “A perfect ten and then some.”
He was ten-plus inches long and nearly nine inches around. He was glad his geometry teacher had taught him how to figure mass volume of a cylinder:Volume = Circumference ÷ 2 x Length
He looked down at the table.
He sported a hefty forty-five cubic inches of dick.
The sight of his meat made him crazy. He wanted to shout out the news of what he packed away inside his nylon running shorts, inside his red Speedos, inside his jeans. He wanted his dad to know. He wanted his mom to know.
He took his dick in both his hands and worked them up and down the shaft. He marched around the kitchen. He was a teenage boy in heat. Alone at home. Naked in the afternoon. Crazy with lust at the size of his own meat. Jumping up and down. Making his blood-heavy rod bob up and down and feel so good.
He ran his hands across his tight chest. He rubbed his pert nipples. He flexed his belly and his butt. He gyrated his hips and revolved his big dick in wide circles. He was eighteen and crazy and loving it. He had the biggest dick he had ever seen. Bigger than any dick hanging down all wet and soapy in the high-school shower room.
He slapped his pud on the table, then harder in his hand. He gritted his teeth and stroked himself up to the edge of shooting his hot load of teenseed all over the kitchen floor.
He fell back against the sink. He turned on the faucet. He filled a glass with water. He drank half of it to slake his thirst, then he plunged his dick deep into the glass.
The water that was left forced its way around his rod and out the neck of the glass. For a moment, he thought he had gone too far. His dick, three-quarters deep, looked like pressed meat inside the glass tumbler. A slight panic. A tug. He stuck his finger in between his dick and the edge of the glass. He broke the suction. He twisted the glass. He twisted his cock. Pure pleasure. He pulled the glass slowly away from his groin.
He spied a butter dish on the kitchen cabinet. He scooped up three fingersfull and shoved the butter into the glass tumbler. He lay back on the cool kitchen floor, jacking off his dick into the glass that held the heat of his meat. He fucked his hips up into the glass. He held the base of his dick with one hand and pounded his big pud into the glass with his other hand.
He was a one-man orgy.
Fuckcrazy.
Cumcrazy! His big balls ached. They bounced up against the glass and his hand. They bounced against the cool floor. He breathed deeply, caught his breath, settled back, changed his pace, and slowly, slowly, began the slow fuck of his dick, pulling the slippery, sucking glass up nearly to the head of his dick, then sliding it back down, till the tender head of his meat pushed against the bottom of the glass; pulling the glass up, up, up, then off his dick; teasing his cockhead with the smooth rim of the glass; feeling the butter melt, running down the shaft, through his blond pubes, across his balls, and into the crack of his ass.
He was making a mess and he loved it.
He licked one finger and stuck it up his asshole. He suction-pumped the glass up and down his upstanding cock. He writhed on the floor. His hands smeared the butter across his fresh young body.
He felt pinned on his back by wrestlers from the senior varsity team. He closed his eyes and imagined their weight pressing down on his hard dick held tight inside a jockstrap inside his wrestling singlet.
He raised himself up from the kitchen floor to a wrestling bridge position: palms of hands and feet on the floor, small of his back arched up, his head hanging down between his arms, his flat belly curved up toward the ceiling, his erect cock pointing straight up into the cool air.
He held the position that Coach Blue had taught him.
He thrust his dick up higher and higher. The ten inches of his meat vaulted above his pumping arched body. His dick drove ceilingward.
Small pearls of hot juice squeezed out the tight opening in the big tip, and teared down the mushroom corona of the big head, hanging for a moment on the lip of the crown, then sliding fast down the blue-veined tracks of the shaft.
He ached with pleasure hoisting the ten inches high above his body. Sweat broke out under the glaze of butter.
He slid slowly to the floor. He panted. His belly heaved. His balls ached. His dick stretched out even above the double-grasp of both his hands fisting his meat, hard, up and down, smash-masturbating himself to a frenzy.
He entered his final heat.
Greased and sweating he rose from the floor.
He felt dirty and he loved the feeling. He locked his eyes on some mid-distance point like a jock ready to take the high jump. He felt wild and he liked the feeling. It was his birthday and he liked the feeling: eighteen, packing a real sweet ten inches.
He could do what the fuck he wanted. No one would know. No one would ever know.
He felt his fresh load oozing toward the head of his throbbing dick. He felt that mean green trigger in the back of his head begin to click.
He walked to the refrigerator. It was clear now. The vision was in his head. It was his birthday. The birthday boy could do anything. And he knew what he would do.
He felt his load building. He slammed his hard cock against the refrigerator. He opened the door. He pulled out the special meatloaf he knew his mom wanted to surprise him with at his birthday dinner.
He knew he could do it. He knew he would do it.
He put the red meatloaf on the floor.
He bit his lip, grinning at the splendid joke, and slid to his knees.
He straddled the meatloaf between his slick young thighs.
He dragged his balls through the ketchup circle on top of the meat.
Then he raised up halfway and with both hands stroked his big ten-incher no more than a dozen strokes before he came, arching his head back, howling like a banshee, shooting his load across the meatloaf, rising up, falling back, then falling forward on his hands and toes, pumping out pushups, hard-on into the hamburger, until every last spasm of his teenage body drained the seed from his dick, until finally he lay exhausted, spent, drained, and happy across the meatloaf.
He dozed. He slept the dreams of angels. He didn’t recall for how long. Finally, he woke with a start.
He knew what he must do.
He cleaned the kitchen floor, washed the glass tumbler, and put away his father’s tape measure.
He reconstructed the meatloaf, putting it and its extra ingredient back into the refrigerator.
Then he showered, ready to greet his father when he came in from the fields and his mother when she came home with birthday presents in her hands.
OPENING DAY AT THE COUNTY FAIR
J. M. Snyder
About the only thing that happens here in Boydton County is the annual fair. The first week in October everyone turns out at the fairgrounds, their livestock and crops in tow. There are cattle auctions, hog-calling contests, funnel cakes, chitlins, and Best of Show ribbons given out for everything from largest cucumber to fattest sow. On any given day there’s maybe five hundred people all told, jostling for a place inside the split rail fence that cuts the grounds out from the surrounding fields. Believe me, that’s a crowd around these parts, and all the pickups and John Deeres tear up the dirt tracks that lead into the fairgrounds something fierce. When the fair committee manages to wrangle someone famous to stop on by, the mud and the muck just gets worse. Few years back, they had that guy who played Deputy Enos on The Dukes of Hazzard, and you’d have thought it was Boss Hogg himself. This year my sister Jolene heard it might be Toby Keith, but I think she heard wrong because there’s no way the county could cough up the money to bring someone big like him here. I mean, really.
The day the fair’s set to open, Jolene wakes me up at four thirty, just before dawn. Since it’s still dark out at this hour, it takes her several minutes to rouse me out of sleep. Barely opening my eyes, I groan, “God, Jo. It’s too early.”
“Come on,” she mutters, keeping her voice down so she won’t wake our folks. “Jesse, you said you’d drive me to the fair. Missy’s outside and waiting already.” Missy is Jolene’s prize pig—she won four ribbons three years back and Jo’s been making money selling her offspring at every fair since. Vaguely I remember telling her that I’d give her a ride to the fairgrounds, but right at this moment I can’t for the life of me imagine why.
When I don’t stir, Jolene shoves my bed and hisses, “Jesse!” Then she shucks off her sneakers and clambers on top of my covers, nothing but pointy elbows and skinny legs that poke at me in unpleasant places. Rising to her feet, she stomps about my mattress, narrowly missing my hands and face. “Wake up,” she chants in time with her steps. “Wake up, wake up, wake up.” I curl into a fetal position and squeeze my eyes shut, but what’s the use? She’s won. Still, I hold out until she stops moving and threatens, “I’ll tell Pa.”
Only then do I stretch awake. The last thing I need is my father in here, towering over my bed with his hard eyes, asking in that dangerously low voice of his how a hardworking man like him managed to sire a lazy do-nothing freeloader like me. I’ll never be good enough for him, I’ve learned that lesson over the last twenty years, but that’s never kept me from trying. As I kick Jolene off the bed, I yawn and tell her, “I’m up already.” I hate the triumphant grin on her face—little sisters sure know how to get under your skin. Running a hand through my close-cropped hair, I ask, “You load Missy up yet?”
“She won’t go up the ramp for me,” Jolene admits. “I got the piglets boxed in but Pa said to come get you since it’s your truck. He’s got Mamma’s veggie crates already stacked up by the back tire, too, waiting for you.”
Suddenly I feel the weight of the coming week heavy on my shoulders. Loading the truck, then driving slowly over back country roads for an hour to get to the fairgrounds, unloading the truck, uncrating the vegetables and the pigs and sitting in the bed of my pickup for long, hot hours watching people pick over both. Six days of that shit. When I was little, the fair used to be as big as Christmas for me, but this early in the morning I don’t have the energy to get that worked up anymore. “God,” I moan, rubbing my face with both hands.
Because I’m not moving fast enough for her, Jolene kicks me in the shin.
By the time we get to the fairgrounds, there’s already a line of battered trucks edging the fence. My mother’s half-brother Gary stands at the open gate, waving vendors on through. He’s county administrator and since it’s an elected position, he makes sure that he’s seen. The day has begun to brighten, but the sky is white from a faint haze that hangs above the grounds like wet laundry. As I pull up to the gates, I lean out the window and holler, “Looks like rain.”
“It’ll hold,” Gary tells me. With a glance at Jolene in the bed of my truck, he adds, “Pigsty’s in the back, you know the way.”
I inch the truck along the main thoroughfare, one foot on the brake pedal as we crawl along behind other trucks between lines of vendors setting up their booths. There’s a tractor somewhere up ahead, I hear the ragged engine churn in the rising heat, and people dart across the strip, dodging between the trucks as they chase after children or livestock that have managed to get away. Twice I hit the steering wheel in frustration but I don’t bother to use the horn—wouldn’t do any good. Instead I glare out the window at anyone who dares to meet my gaze and egg the truck on in little jolts that make Jolene tap angrily against the cab’s back window. I’ve been up for hours and haven’t even eaten yet, it’s getting hot already, the stench of livestock permeates the air, I’m in a sour mood, and I’m thinking that next year there’s no way I’m doing this shit again—when for the first time in ages I see someone I don’t know.
He’s a young man, about my age, shirt off to expose pale skin that hasn’t seen the sun all summer and a back that glistens with sweat as he hammers a couple of two-by-fours into a booth. Light hair the color of bailed hay falls to his shoulders, and I stare at his slender frame, memorizing the flex of thin muscles across narrow shoulder blades. It’s Mrs. Colton’s booth he’s working on—she stands to one side with her hands on her ample hips, cans of preserves around her feet. When she sees me looking, she calls out, “Y’all come by for some of my jelly, you hear? I got something new you’ll want to try.”
“So I see,” I reply. That earns me a smirk from the stranger. Encouraged, I add, “What’s his name?”
Mrs. Colton doesn’t get my drift, thank god. “This here’s Ruddy Johnson’s boy. Davis?” Instead of a sideways glance this time he turns to look at me, eyebrows arched and with a suggestive grin. “Jesse Sadler, his sister Jolene. My, that Missy has some size to her.”
Davis. His eyes challenge me to turn away but I can’t, I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame and I imagine lying beneath him, pinned into submission under that steady gaze. In my mind I can see just how dusky my skin would look alongside his white flesh; I can taste his sweat, smell his scent, almost feel how firm his body would be against my hands. As I stare, he gives me a quick wink that makes my dick go from mildly interested to “Hello!” in one heartbeat. I’m so caught up in him that I don’t even realize the traffic has stopped moving until I bump into the truck in front of us. Jolene pounds on the glass behind me hard enough to rattle it in my ear.
“Sorry!” I holler, cringing at the look the driver ahead gives me in his side-view mirror. God. Davis laughs, the sound boyish and so bright that it makes me want to sink down into my seat and die of embarrassment. As the line of trucks starts to move forward, I duck my head and hide the side of my face behind my hand so I won’t be tempted to look his way again.
When we reach the pigsty, Jolene jumps down from the bed of the truck and wants to know, “What’d you run up on Bubba’s bumper for?”
“You’re only eleven,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m twelve,” she counters. “I know more than you think.” I shrug her comment off, but she warns, “And you best hope Pa don’t see you making eyes at any boys.”
All right, so maybe she is a bit more perceptive than I thought.
Ruddy Johnson is the only person I know of who left the county and didn’t drop off the face of the earth. He still comes back once a year for the county fair—he’s a contractor now, works out of the state capital, but he and Gary went to high school together and folks don’t mind him coming down, seeing as he was once one of their own. If I’d known Ruddy had a son like Davis, I might have let Gary talk me into hiring on to one of his work crews earlier this summer.
As my sister goes about uncrating the pigs, I lean against the side of my truck and wonder how long I can stall putting our booth together in the hopes that Davis will eventually drift down this way to help. I squint back along the main strip, but I can’t pick him out from the people milling about. When Jolene tells me to get a move on, I flick the toothpick I’m chewing at her and haul one crate of tomatoes out of the truck, set it on the ground at my feet, then take another look around. Still no sign of Davis. I can’t believe he’s not somewhere thinking about me right now. Lord knows I wasn’t the only one staring.
