Show-Offs, page 9
Suddenly he uncorks his dick from my mouth. With traces of drool at the corners of my yapper, I watch for his next move. “Let’s go back to my truck,” he whispers through the hole, his breath reeking of booze. I make out a coarse brown mustache that covers his top lip. We hurry to make ourselves decent, so much so that my dick nearly catches in the copper jaws of my zipper. When I exit the stall, there’s a new row of bodacious cowboys taking leaks, but I couldn’t care less.
My dick guides me past a school of pool-playing, beer-guzzling men and into a poorly lit lot of cars, jeeps, and dirty four-by-fours. Whether my crappy car will crank or not is the last thing on my mind. I turn the corner of a green Dumpster to find a pickup near the fence with its parking lights on. It’s caked with dried mud. I walk to the front of the truck. THE PICKUP MAN is painted in neat letters across the top of the windshield. I try to make out the cowboy’s face through his dark-tinted windows. He pushes open the passenger-side door, but I’m hesitant to get in: I don’t know this guy from Adam, and his truck reeks of dead deer.
“How’s it goin’?” I ask.
“Hey,” he replies. It’s dark in the parking lot, but I can make out some of his features.
“That was hot back there,” I tell him, even though I’m a bit uneasy about all this. Suddenly I feel like a fly in this dude’s web, thinking maybe he’s out to spill a punk’s blood and leave me for dead in a ditch off some lonely highway. Don’t be stupid, I think.
“I know a place we can go,” he says gruffly.
I usually don’t get into cars with guys I don’t know—especially guys driving big-ass pickups with tinted windows—but he’s a piece of ass too good to pass up. When guys start talking about going back to their place, I usually change my mind and get the hell outta Dodge. Cars with tinted windows really freak me out. A month ago, a local girl was raped and sodomized after she accepted a ride from a stranger. Cops describe the vehicle as a white van with blue stripes and dark windows. They still haven’t found the bastard.
“I don’t know about going anywhere,” I tell him. I look around nervously to study my surroundings just in case this guy tries to kidnap my ass.
“It’s cool. I ain’t weird or nothin’,” he tells me.
After careful consideration, I make up my mind to go along, and I climb into the cab of his pickup. Besides, I have a switchblade in case this motherfucker wants to kick up some shit. I don’t want to have to cut a bitch, but I will if things get critical. “Lead the way,” I tell him. My heart beats heavy as his truck bucks slowly out of the lot. He drives farther and farther out of the clutches of the city limits, past greasy spoons and signs with store names that end in “4 Less.”
“So where we goin’?” I ask him.
“There’s a rest stop off Highway 10,” he says. “Don’t worry. We’re almost there.”
The pickup roars like a mythical beast as he presses deep into the gas, making his way down a dirt road that slices apart a wooded area off the bustling freeway. There are a few cars in sight, and the ruffian jostles his pickup between two of them, neither of which is occupied by the drivers.
“Dude, is this safe?” I ask.
“It’s pretty quiet ’round this time of night. Come on. Let’s go in back.” He lets down the tail end of the truck exposing the bed strewn with tools and sawed-off pieces of paneling. I press the knife in my pocket, ready to pull it out in case he tries anything. I can’t help thinking of the van-driving rapist. “Hop in,” he says. “Just push some of this shit off to the side.”
As I crawl in on my knees, pushing junk out of the way, he grabs my ass and presses a finger in the crevice of my butt. He climbs in behind me and collapses into a nest of heavy, hard things that pushes into our flesh. He takes off his cowboy hat and tosses it inside the truck on the seat. Feathers of sweaty black hair are exposed, along with a touch of gray in his brows. His pot roast of a gut is snug under his T-shirt, which displays a pit bull bearing its teeth beneath a Confederate flag. His nipples are pert under the cotton. Like erasers, these things. His big metal belt buckle hangs limply from his waist as he unzips his Wranglers. I watch as he pulls the snakeskin boots off his tube sock–covered feet. “Aintcha gonna get undressed?” he asks.
“I don’t know about this, man. Somebody might see us out here.”
“It’s cool,” he assures me. “Nobody’ll fuck with us.”
He starts to unbutton my shirt with his gritty fingers. It doesn’t take me long to get out of my clothes. We’re both still in our socks and underwear when he asks me what I’m into.
“Well, you already know I like to suck,” I tell him. “I’m pretty versatile, really. I’ll try almost anything once.”
He reaches into the cotton crotch panel of his briefs and pulls out the dick I’d worshiped a short while ago in the crapper at Billy’s. “Anything, huh?” he says. He peels his briefs off hulking legs and tosses them in a nowhere-special direction. A salt-and-pepper thicket surrounds his horse-hung erection. Compared to this rough, redneck of a thing, I have nothing much to offer between my legs.
When I move in to give his nipples a taste test, the congestion in the bed of his truck shuffles beneath my bare, black ass. They blush as I bite and suck them with love. “Ow, fuck!” he yells.
I move between his thighs and take his dick in my nervous palm. His ball sac is tender and coarse. He runs his hands through the kinky crop of my hair as I manhandle his nipples. “Suck me, boy,” he demands, pushing me with force past his beer belly. I waste no time putting his dick in my mouth. I nuzzle my nose in his nest of cowboy-crotch stink. “Awesome, man!” he says. “You suck purty good.”
His calling me “boy” gets me hot, causing my dick to thicken even more as I struggle not to gag on his sex. I want him to know I can take a dick proper like a good boy. We turn our bodies in a sixty-nine position. He spreads his legs as I lick along the shaft and suckle the tender goose-bump flesh of his sac. His sweaty hair is cold against the inside of my thigh as he devours my cock. His teeth graze against it, but what’s hot sex without a little pain? I brace myself each time his choppers skim along my dick.
“Roll on over, boy. On your back,” he says.
My knees point up to the stars as he services me with unrelenting fervor. I squeeze his booty as he runs my dick in and out of his mouth again. He’s ripe and sweaty as I glide my tongue along his cherry. “Oh, man, that’s awesome. Do that,” he says.
He leisurely works his burly butt upon the throne of my face. There you are, Daddy, I think, tongue-tickling his button. His dick grazes my chest as I munch away on his butt. The tip of my ring finger slides in easily up his wet stuff. I’m careful not to damage his goods, for his butt is as precious to me as the night sky. I lick and spit continuously on the cowboy’s sphincter, fucking him with four fingers, which go up him without a hitch.
“You wanna fuck me, boy?” I’m too busy with his backside to answer. “I wanna fuck.”
“You got a rubber?” I ask him.
The cowboy grabs the leg of his jeans and drags them toward our nude bodies. He feels around in one of the pockets and pulls out a cellophane packet. He tears it with his teeth then uses his mouth to roll the prophylactic over my sex. He pulls his cheeks apart with calloused, cruddy fingers, and my dick slides easily up his country ass. In amazement I watch as his walls gorge on my dick.
“Oh, man that’s it,” he announces. I claw his butt as he rides me like one of those mechanical bulls back at Billy’s. Beads of sweat trickle from his furry back as I thrust my sex up his butt with wild abandon. “God, fuck!” he yells.
I never thought I was that great at fucking, but with all the cursing and fussing this hick is doing, I guess I’m not as bad as I thought. I give him a reach around, tugging on his dick like a cow’s udder. “Yeah, like that,” he says. “I’m close.”
The screwing and jerking is in perfect synchronization. “Let’s nut together,” I tell him.
His moans are sweet music to my ears. “Um comin’,” he announces.
You and me both. When I expectedly feel something warm between my fingers, I tug his dick, milking him of every drop. My breaths are heavy; my gluteus maximus muscles ache and burn. I yell silently in my dirty mind that I’m about to come. I brace against his bear shoulders as I climax up his ass, into the flesh-colored rubber. My body relaxes as he slides off my cock.
“You sure can fuck,” he says breathlessly.
With aching muscles, we rest for a while before getting dressed. I slap him on the butt as he pushes a foot into one of his boots. When we climb back into the cab, the windshield has fogged with the night’s cold. He wipes it clear and drives me back to Billy’s, where the graveled lot is empty except for my car parked on the side of the bar.
He pulls in front of Spears Seafood, where they have a sale on roe and oysters, and asks if we could get together again. I scribble my cell number on the back of an old grocery receipt. His ’stache pricks my face when he leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
My car stalls a few times but successfully cranks up after the fourth attempt. “Thank you, baby,” I say, kissing its steering wheel.
I’m not even home yet before my cell phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” It’s the cowboy. “I forgot to tell ya I had a good time.”
I laugh and assure him that I, too, had fun. We make a date to meet at a bar-and-grill place that’s a tad classier than Billy’s. I get home and collapse on the bed with his cowboy-bear scent on me like cheap cologne.
WHAT PLEASES HIM MOST
Thomas Kearnes
I needed to be numb before surrounding myself with nude, wandering men. The previous times Cutter and I journeyed to the bathhouse in Dallas, I shot through the halls of rented rooms, past the bank of grimy oblong windows overlooking the outdoor pool, through the steam room, beside the hot tub. I cleared them like hurdles. I only went because Cutter so enjoyed all the waiting flesh on display. Yes, occasionally I found a man to bring back to our room that was bought by the hour, but honestly, I would’ve been just as happy had Cutter been the only man lying beside me, fucking me, loving me. But even with him near me, I needed the tweak to keep me from abandoning my skin, leaving Cutter alone with the strange men while I scurried back home to Denton.
Cutter and I sat on his bed passing the pipe. Posters of great Greek landmarks covered his walls. While a twittering blue jay outside his bedroom window distracted him, I snuck another hit off the pipe.
“Careful with that, boy,” he said, gaze not leaving the window. “You don’t wanna get so high you can’t get hard.”
Caught, I simply grinned. Cutter always found me out. Perhaps that was a condition of love. “Why do you think I always bottom?”
“Because that’s what I expect from you, boy.”
I laughed and passed the pipe. Cutter was always good to me. He volunteered his house in uptown Dallas for our weekends and occasional weeknights together. I still lived in a dorm in Denton, sharing it with a nosy kid from the East Coast. True, Cutter was thirty-seven, but I did my best not to think what would happen, how that age gap would bend and flex into something more obscene if we managed to stay together after these first few months. When he reached fifty, I would be thirty-three. Perhaps an attorney, if I followed my father’s urging to attend law school. These frequent trips to the Dallas Spa were the price of admission, I told myself, the price of procuring a boyfriend as accomplished, sexy and—well—manly as Cutter Drake.
My boyfriend was gorgeous, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so. During trips to the bathhouse, I watched the way men never stopped walking past but allowed their heads to slowly turn, keeping their eyes on Cutter as he continued the opposite way. He had a fantastic body. He liked to call me from the twenty-four-hour gym downtown and brag whenever he managed to max more weight while pumping iron. But it was his face—the way his smile spread like melting butter: that was where I sometimes caught myself gazing while his attention was elsewhere. The slim, sharp nose; the pale-gray eyes; the long locks of rust-colored hair that flopped down past his eyebrows. And best of all, he was a man—masculine and confident, not like those prissy, shaven boys that trolled the sidewalks in Oak Lawn.
“Just a few more hits,” I said. “You know, to fortify me.”
“You and your big words.”
“I’m sorry, but that place…you know…”
He scooped the long end of the pipe into the tiny plastic bag of tweak, ushered another rock into its mouth. “Yes, Darren, I’m aware of your feelings about the bathhouse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We don’t have to go.”
“But you love it there.”
“I love watching other men fuck you.”
“Do you think we could make it just the two of us today?”
Cutter grinned, cuffed me behind the ear. “All depends on who we find, my boy.”
I tried my best to smile. Granted, Cutter never forced any man on me. I got final approval on each trick we invited to our rented room. But always at some point while the chosen man was inside me, Cutter taking snapshots with his digital camera, I began to drift. I thought about how Cutter would fuck me after this strange man left, what he would say to me, how he would praise my “performance.” I knew I was doing these things, these men, for him—not for myself. But whenever I broke away from the fuck to look at Cutter’s face, I saw the pride and lust in his eyes and in that moment believed there could be no higher calling than pleasing the man who loved you.
“It’ll be past four when we get there,” I said. “We’ll be hours ahead of the club crowd.”
“Too many fucking twinks at night. The guys that go in the afternoon are men.”
“Like you,” I said.
“Like me.” And with that, he pulled me close and kissed me so softly, I felt my heart drop into my stomach. The blue jay twittered again outside the bedroom window. I listened to its panicked cries as Cutter eased me down onto the bed. He set down the pipe on the nightstand and came to rest on top of me. Perhaps we wouldn’t make the bathhouse till five that afternoon.
Every weekend we went to the Dallas Spa, Cutter carried an old black gym bag. Inside were all the necessities needed to spend the next few hours fucking strangers: lubricant, condoms, bottles of Gatorade, cock rings, a camera, a tweak pipe and about an ounce of white crystals. We strolled down Swiss Avenue, staring straight ahead. Our first time there, Cutter warned me it was considered impolite to make eye contact with any man leaving the building. Frankly appraising the men should wait until you were in the halls, among the rooms. Or in the steam room or sauna. Anywhere beyond the check-in desk was fair game. At the time, I didn’t see the sense behind the rule, but I did as Cutter instructed, not looking up when I felt the gaze of a muscled guy passing us. Today, there was no one leaving when we arrived. Cutter joked with the skinny man behind the check-in counter. He flashed his credit card then collected our room key and the threadbare white terry-cloth towels. We would wear them after shedding our clothes in the rented room. Our check-in complete, Cutter grandly swung out his arm to hold open the swinging door. I chuckled at his mock chivalry and entered the bathhouse.
We first passed through the lounge. It was very large, a pool table at one end and at the other an arrangement of couches and chairs placed before a big-screen television. Cutter once told me the men who gravitated here were either too ugly to fuck or too wired to seek it out. A Cameron Diaz movie played to the small group of bare-chested men seated around the set. My gaze fell on one of the men. He was maybe forty with a solid build. Coarse chest hair partially obscured his admirable physique. He swiveled his head and caught me staring at him. I quickly averted my gaze, but Cutter had noted our awkward exchange.
“Already on the prowl, boy?”
“No, I just…I thought I knew him.”
“Probably saw him here before.”
“I’m sure that’s it.” I forced my voice to brighten, like an airline attendant announcing how to save your own damn life. “Did you get us the VIP room?” I asked.
“You’ll just have to follow me and see where I go,” Cutter purred and grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the curved hallway connecting the lounge to the small maze of halls and rented rooms. We passed by the stone archway leading to the hot tub, showers and sauna room. I’d go there soon enough. Cutter always insisted I shower after every fuck, no matter how brief. Built into the stone hallway was a series of windows looking out over the kidney-shaped pool and stone sundeck. It was an overcast autumn day, so no men were using the deck chairs. As we neared the maze’s entrance, I heard the awful staccato beat of electronic house music thud over the speakers, fill the hallways. I never understood gay men’s obsession with remixing perfectly good songs until they all sounded alike. But in my state of intoxication, I found the steady thump of the bass strangely soothing. I imagined Cutter fucking me in time to the pulsing beat.
Inside the maze, Cutter led me down a small hallway with no doors on either side. He had booked the VIP room! There were only three such rooms in the entire club, each complete with a queen-size sheeted mattress, pillows, and a television bolted high on the wall, playing nonstop gay pornography. There was plenty of room to maneuver and play, unlike in the regular rooms, which were the size of broom closets, the twin-sized rubber mattress taking up half the floor space. Though thrilled to waltz into our swank accommodations, a prick of fear settled at the back of my skull. Cutter was typically a thrifty man. Why shell out the additional cash for a VIP room unless he planned something unusual, something worlds apart from our normal sexual routine?
As various unpleasant scenarios played through my fried brain, Cutter tossed his gym bag on the bed and began to strip.
“You notice anyone promising, boy?”
“I wasn’t really looking.”
