RIVERBOAT QUEENS

  Dominic Santi

  Most of the time, I’m straight. I mean, I love my wife. I like fucking pussy. But there’s something about being in LaCrosse that leaves me starving for dick. On hot, muggy days in July, I walk along the Mississippi and watch the riverboats glide by. I hear the splash of the paddle wheels and the cries of eagles flying past the sandstone cliffs. I feel the quiet whoosh of barges moving slowly through the thick, muddy water, and I remember my best friend, Daryl.

  Daryl and I grew up in the farm country east of the river. Back at home, we were all just good old boys. Sure, we knew about the straight/gay things. We’d heard people call each other fag or queer or gay on TV, even seen some guys in dresses when we went to the Twin Cities on our senior biology trip. The summer after we turned eighteen, though, Daryl and I were just buds hanging out together. We were single and horny and working hard out on his grandpa’s farm, with no chicks around for miles and just a couple of well-thumbed Playboys hidden out in the hayloft.

  Back then, Daryl and I always jerked off together. It was just something we did.

  “Fuck, look at the tits on this one. She is hot, dude. I bet she could suck the chrome off the shifter of your daddy’s ’68 T-bird.” Daryl’s breath wasn’t exactly coming easy. He was lying back in the hay, naked except for his T-shirt and his socks. His short, stocky body glistened with sweat and strands of his long, sun-bleached hair clung to his neck. In one hand, he held the warped centerfold sideways, so Miss July five years ago hung down just above his cock. In the other, he held his thick, swollen shaft. As he spoke, he feverishly worked his foreskin back and forth over the glistening red tip beneath.

  “Nice ass, too,” I panted. My own dick was throbbing. I was taller and skinnier and darker than Daryl, so I figured it made sense that my dick was longer and thinner, with a thick nest of sweaty brown curls at the base. My cover wasn’t long and loose like his either, but there was still enough there to get me shivering each time I pinched my skin and worked the web of frenulum beneath. I had a thing for tits, too. Even more than Daryl. My own especially. Daryl thought I was nuts. But when he saw how turned on I got, he’d chewed on my nipples more than once for me, so I’d have a really good come.

  “Do me, man,” he gasped, leaning back down into the stacked up hay. He tried to point the head of his dick toward me, but he was so hard it didn’t want to go any direction but straight up. “I really need it, man. I am hard up for some serious cocksucking.”

  Now, Daryl and I had talked about this at length. When we’d heard some stuff on a special on TV, we’d been concerned we might turn gay if we kept sucking each other’s dicks. Not that that bothered either one of us, really. But we were afraid that if we were gay, we wouldn’t be able to fuck pussy anymore. And that would definitely not do. Not that either one of us had ever had a serious girlfriend, but it was the principle of the matter. So, after a lot of long and serious conversations over more than a few beers, we’d decided that sucking each other off was just a dick thing. It didn’t have anything to do with liking either cocks or pussy. We were just horny. And as Daryl had said, I could see he was seriously hard up at the moment.

  I tossed my magazine to the side and lay down on my shirt between his legs. As I took his balls in my hand and lifted them, Daryl threw his arm over his eyes. Now one thing I’ll say about Daryl is that he really appreciated having his dick sucked. He moaned, long and sweet, as I licked into the damp heat between his ball sac and the side of his leg.

  “Oh, dude,” he groaned.

  “You smell nice,” I smiled, burying my face in his crotch and inhaling deeply. I licked long and slowly, swirling my tongue over the heavy orbs in his hot, wrinkled sac. “Taste good, too.”

  “Fuck,” he moaned. Daryl wasn’t real eloquent, at least not where his cock was concerned. As I started really working his balls, he reached down and stroked my hair. He buried his fingers deep, rubbing and tugging while I sucked his balls one at a time into my mouth and washed his salt from them with my spit.

  We were never much into hurrying. As far as we were concerned, the first couple of hours after lunch were set aside for beating off. Nobody was going to venture into the barn to bother us during the heat of the day. So I sucked Daryl’s nuts until he was moaning. The sweat on my shirt had dried, but I got it wet again with my precum as I wriggled over the thin cotton covering the thick hay beneath. Then I moved up just a bit and licked up his shaft.

  “Oh, yeah, dude,” he panted. “That’s sweet.”

  And it was. Daryl’s scent was one fucking intense aphrodisiac. The soft skin over his rock-hard dick was tangy and salty with his sweat and dried dick juices. We’d learned all about safer sex in school, but since neither one of us had ever had sex with anybody else, we figured we were safe. Besides, we didn’t figure we were really having sex. We were just two guys beating off together and helping each other out. We especially didn’t use the term virgins. No way. We had reps to uphold. And we would have slept with chicks, if there’d been any available, which there weren’t. Well, except on Saturday nights. We both had reservations about the over-painted women twice our ages who came into town to party at the Barrel-On- Inn. And we definitely didn’t want to go to church and get hitched, which was where the only chicks we knew who were our ages were. We figured things would get better when we went away to college in the fall. So, for now, we were just a couple of guys, helping each other out.

  I licked up, teasing over the velvety soft skin, pointing my tongue down hard where the tube snaked up the middle of his shaft. With my thumb and forefinger, I pulled his dick-skin back. Then I flattened my tongue and licked on up into heaven.

  “Oh, man!” Daryl was so sensitive, he jumped with each swipe. The thin layer of tangy sweat drew me like a cat to cream. He shook when I wiggled my tongue against the long, thin sensitive web underneath. “Do it softer, man. S-softer…”

  I knew what Daryl needed. As I gentled my tongue, I let my saliva run down over his shaft. I drooled spit until his balls were wet and my mouth juice was running down into his crack. Daryl was breathing hard, panting like a dog. He knew what was coming. As I kissed my way tenderly up his shaft, he gripped my hair.

  “Here it comes, dude.” I opened my mouth and swallowed his cock. Daryl bucked up into my throat. Oh, god, he tasted good—salty and musky and something that was just plain him. His skin was soft and warm over the turgid flesh beneath. Each time I dove forward, his hips thrust up to meet me. I slid my finger down his straining balls and over the spit I’d drooled into his crack. Daryl didn’t like to admit how sensitive his asshole was, so we didn’t talk about it. But as soon as I started rubbing his perineum, his legs moved apart and he bent and lifted his knees. I rubbed the quivering, wrinkled pucker hiding between his asscheeks. He thrust deep into my throat, grunting as I swallowed him so deep I fought to keep from gagging.

  Daryl never lasted long once I was fingering his hole. As my throat closed around him, I ground my throbbing cock into the sweaty shirt beneath me. I eased my slippery finger through that tight-assed sphincter of his and up into his wet, hot chute. Every damn time, he shouted, bucking up as his creamy jism spurted into my mouth. No matter how many times we did it, and we did it damn near every day, each time, I loved the feel of his semen squirting down my throat so much that right then and there, I came into that fucking shirt beneath my legs. There was a spot in Daryl’s ass that made him squirt buckets when I massaged it, so while he writhed and twisted and my dick spurted into the crusty, well-used shirt, I rubbed that knot in his ass and sucked his cock while he held my head and fucked himself dry into my throat.

  Then, no matter how many times I told him I’d already come, Daryl would announce that my coming into the shirt didn’t count. Our helping each other was only fair if he got me off, too. He was shorter, but he was definitely stronger. So when he’d caught his breath and finally stopped shaking, he rolled me over and took my cum-covered cock in his mouth. He spit on his fingers until they were dripping. Then he worked them slowly and deliberately up my ass, one at a time until he had three or four in me, and he finger-fucked me while he sucked me off until I finally came again.

  Even though I was young and horny, I’d just come, so sometimes it took me a really long time. Sometimes, it took so long Daryl would get hard all over again. So, when his fingers got tired, he spit on his dick and used that instead. It wasn’t sex. It was just that his fingers were tired and he was horny again, too. So he grabbed my ankles and spread my legs, and he pressed his spit-covered dick into me. He pumped his big hard dick through my asslips and deep inside to press over that spot where my orgasms started. I grabbed my dick and squeezed it while he thrust hard and deep and fast, or sometimes slow and easy and relentlessly. When the orgasm finally boiled up out of me, my body stiffened and shook. My balls drained themselves dry while I grunted and twitched and tried not to yell because it felt so damn fucking good. Then Daryl stiffened over me and I felt the surges while he emptied himself up my ass.

  We never talked afterward. That would have made what we were doing too much like sex. So we just lay there holding each other until we fell asleep. And when we woke up later on, we laughed at how sticky and sweaty our bodies were, and how the loft smelled like cum. Then we hid our Playboys and went back downstairs to work. And the next day, after lunch, we went back up to the loft and did it all over again.

  For all I know, we might have been doing it still. But when fall came, Daryl and I went away to different colleges. He was killed by a drunk driver a few months later. During my sophomore year, I met Amy. We got married right after graduation and moved to Madison. She doesn’t suck my cock as well as Daryl did, and I don’t think she knows I have an asshole. But she has big breasts and a sweet pussy and I love her. Even though she never met Daryl, she didn’t mind when I told her that I love her now, but I think I loved him that one summer so long ago, back when he and I were just eighteen.

  And every summer, at least once, I find a reason to go to La- Crosse by myself to watch the riverboats moving up and down the Mississippi. I walk by the river on sultry afternoons and one way or another, I end up hooking up with another man. Now, I use condoms, even for sucking. I usually only come once. And I call what I’m doing sex. But when a warm, living dick is buried deep in my ass and I’m squeezing my dick, I think of Daryl. I hear the horns of the riverboats, and, oh, god, I come.

  HOT SALES GUY

  Alex Strand

  Thursday, October 6, 2005: The Pillow Fight Our business meeting went great. I’m certain we saved the client and we’ll probably get more business out of them too. We had a slightly rocky start when someone mentioned politics and Bethany started to go on about “poor Mr. DeLay” and how he was being set up, “railroaded by partisan politics,” she said, but Hot Sales Guy deftly cut her off and brought the meeting back on track. But I know that you could all give a shit about the business; you want to know what happened with Hot Sales Guy. Well, the best way to sum it up is that it was weird.

  After dinner with the clients Bethany turned in to call her kids and pray or something and Hot Sales Guy and I decided to go out for a

  few drinks. We ran up to our rooms to change and and then meet back in the lobby. I put on my new Paper Denim & Cloth jeans, which, if I do say so myself, make my ass look awesome. Like Missy Elliott says, I feel like they make my “ass go boom!” I also wore the Rogues Gallery T-shirt that Hot Sales Guy got me for my birthday that says Death & Co. on the front—I love it. When we met up in the lobby it was about ten and after some hemming and hawing we decided we were too lazy to go out and we hit the hotel bar.

  We had a pretty good time except when some fat asshole in a cowboy hat with a massive gut hanging over what I must say was a totally hip belt buckle (although I’m sure he didn’t know that) drunkenly asked if us “girls” were having a good time. I ignored him but Hot Sales Guy turned toward him and said, “What?” in a confrontational way.

  The guy laughed a little but then realized that Hot Sales Guy was serious. “Relax mister,” he said nervously, “I just don’t always see such pretty boys.”

  I was like, “Just ignore him. He’s a drunk hillbilly.”

  Hot Sales Guy, his masculinity bruised, wanted to get into something but the guy was already looking the other way, no doubt dreaming up another stupid thing to say. So to take his mind off it I ordered tequila shots and pulled him into his seat. At around eleven forty-five the bar was empty and the bartender told us it was last call. Hot Sales Guy and I were lit and wanted to keep going. He wanted to go into town and find a fun bar to do some “cruising,” as he said. I was like, “Do you even know what ‘cruising’ is?”

  “Sure I do. It’s lookin’ for chicks.”

  “Well, I guess,” I said. “But mostly gay boys use it when we’re looking to get laid.”

  “That’s cool. I’m looking to get laid.”

  “By a gay guy?”

  “Hold your horses there, big guy,” was his response.

  Trying to think quickly and strategically while drunk, which isn’t easy, I managed to convince him that it was too much hassle to go out and find a bar and everything and that we should just go to one of our rooms and abuse the minibar. I told him my theory that we had done so well with the business that Bitch Boss wouldn’t say anything about the bill. He said that was fine and we started upstairs. In the elevator I was like, “Whose room?” and he said, “Yours.”

  Inside we each kicked off our shoes and hit the bar. The assortment was pathetic, but there were three beers so that’s where we started. I turned on the TV and we flipped through a bunch of stations and then clicked it off when we realized there was nothing to watch. I hooked up my little travel speakers to my iPod and we listened to some tunes instead. We talked about music, about Bethany, about Bitch Boss, and about how he thought one of the clients was hot. It was then—if you can believe it (straight guys are so slow)—that he noticed that I was wearing the T-shirt he’d given me. I of course was on the verge of mentioning it all night but I wanted him to notice. When he did I played it off like no big deal. “Oh yeah, it’s a great shirt.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his eyes a little droopy. “It looks good on you.”

  What? I was screaming inside. Nothing like a comment like that from him to knock some sobriety into me. I recalibrated myself and said as casually as I could, “You think?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I mean don’t let it go to your head or anything. I’d look better in it.”

  “As if,” I said.

  “Whatever, guy, you know I’d look tasty in it.” And he smiled at himself and then downed the rest of his beer. That was already his second beer so there were no others left. He moved on to the twist-top wine.

  “Dude,” I said, “you’re too old. You’ve got to be tight to pull this off.” Of course I was full of shit; he’d look good in a car-cover, but it was tantalizing to tease him like that.

  Still standing by the minibar with his twist-top wine, he was like, “I’m totally tight man, Don’t give me that shit.” And he pulled up the bottom of his shirt to show me his abs. He slapped them a few times and I wished it was my hand doing the slapping.

  I rolled my eyes and raised an eyebrow like only a really good bitch can do and said, “Seen better.”

  “What’re you talkin’ ’bout? I’ve got it going on, dude. This bod brings in the ladies.”

  “Well that’s good because you wouldn’t last ten seconds in a gay bar. We’re much more discerning.”

  “What? You ain’t any better.”

  I rolled my eyes again, dismissing him, and drank up the rest of my beer. I walked into the bathroom to get a cup so that I could partake of the twist-top wine and I heard him holler after me, “I do one hundred crunches every fucking day.” And when I walked back into the room he had his shirt up again and was punching his own stomach. “Rock solid,” he said. “Rock solid.”

  “Whatever, dude. Keep your clothes on,” I said, meaning exactly the opposite.

  “Dude, you’d be lucky to get a piece of this.”

  “I get much better,” I said. “Regularly.”

  “How many sit-ups you do every day?”

  He just wouldn’t let the stomach thing go; clearly I’d hit a nerve. “Enough, will you chill?”

  He walked over to me and put his palm against my stomach, judging my firmness I suppose. I had a massive boner strapped down by my tight boxer-briefs. “Not so tight,” he said.

  “Is this a competition? Who’s more butch?” I asked. I pulled my T-shirt off and said, “Let’s see what you’ve got to offer.” I tried to puff out my chest as best I could and flex my abs while he unbuttoned his shirt. My heart was beating a mile a minute. He dropped his shirt on the floor and started posing like the one of the guys on the WWE. I thought I was going to cum in my pants. Then he started grunting and making weird faces as he flexed. Straight men are so banal. “All right, chill out, Hulk Hogan.”

  “Dude, admit it, I’m pumped.”

  “You’re drunk is what you are. But I guess I take it back: maybe there’s a gay guy who’d do you.”

  “Maybe?”

  “I’m sure there’s some overweight pervert with braces and acne out there who’d let you take his ass for a spin.”

 

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