Friday, October 21, 2011


By R.J.March

I wanted to fuck his brains out, I wanted to fuck him blind, but I was worried about how he might react. And I'm always worrying about shit gettin' around. Who wouldn't around here? This is fucking Buffalo, dude.

I gave Jeff a lift because he said he'd be late if I didn't, and I didn't want him to be late for his first day on the job. He'd just gotten hooked up at Shoes R Us. I've had a job for a while at U R Cool. We sold T-shirts with Farrah Fawcett pictures on them, and Skechers, and Fubu jeans. It was a good place to work because you got a 40% discount and there wasn't anything to do but fold the Farrah Fawcett T-shirts and ask people if they wanted to buy "some socks to go with that outfit" or a "really cool hemp necklace."

Jeff looked like the guy in Third Eye Blind. I think it's that guy, the one that sings. Or maybe it's the Better Than Ezra guy. I can't remember. I only know that I saw Jeff in his boxers once and sprouted myself some mighty wood and had to cover it with my dad's golf club towel, which seemed kind of appropriate at the time.

So, I like guys, but I don't like to talk about it, you know? I don't go around saying I'm gay or anything, because anyway, I'm really not too sure about that right now, and my mom thinks I should make sure before I march in any Gay Pride parade. I think she's offering some good advice, but there's something about Jeff that would make me march down the middle of my hometown in my mom's bra and panties if I knew I was marching toward Jeff with his Abercrombie boxers around his ankles, ass flying high like any proud rainbow fucking flag, ready for some major plowing.

I've got a fattie, a cock like a third fucking arm, which would make a great name for a band, I'm thinking. Once me and this guy — the district buyer for U R Cool, actually, until he got fired or divorced or something — we were fucking around in the store after hours. He'd been on my shit all day, telling me he thought I should model for the store's ads, and he liked the way my hair looked because I had the tips bleached, and he'd been wanting to know how much I benched — like 210 at the time, by the way, and practically 250 now. I hung out after 9 because he said he wanted to show me some new display procedures — like I'd never displayed before.

The lights went out, and he had me back in the office, his hands all over me. "You look so tense," he said, massaging my pecs, dropping down to my crotch, where I'd sprung a leak, if you know what I mean.

And I'm saying, "Tense? You don't know tense." And he starts undoing my jeans and digging around in my boxers, getting my man in two hands and bringing it out into the open.

"At last," was all he said.

Jeff played with the radio and then he played with the end of his shirt. He had to wear this completely gay shirt that said Yo! We Be Shoes! which I thought was totally offensive but there's marketing for you, and I was thinking of majoring in that next semester at Buff. U., and then I could get a job . . . uh — nowhere, you know what I mean? He looked better in a wife-beater, because then you could see his Superman tat and the hand sampled heart he'd drawn himself in sixth grade, long before I'd ever met him.

 He dug at himself, getting a good handful of his crotch and squeezing it hard, grinding the heel of his hand into himself, making even me wince, thinking he might have had crabs or something — scabies, whatever. I watched the road because my car wasn't exactly insured, but whatever he was doing or trying to kill down there got my attention. I got a bone myself that stuck up against the steering wheel and made my driving skills strictly retarded. Shouldn't have worn the warm ups without some protection was what I was thinking, looking forward to the next turn I was going to make, my dick head wedged nicely.

Jeff said, "Dude, I am so not into this. Wouldn't it be cool if you could just keep on going? Why don't we drive to California — I hear everyone is cooler out there."

"Who told you that?" I asked.

"Some dude from LA."

The guy who bought the clothes for our store was from California. I liked thinking about him; Bryan. I hadn't done anything since him and was feeling kind of backed up, which is why I nearly got off on the steering wheel seeing Jeff scratch himself. I liked thinking about Bryan and Jeff together, what they might do. I liked thinking about Jeff bending himself over for this guy who wasn't much older than us and letting him fuck him.

I was thinking that Jeff could like lean over a chair or something and completely open his ass for this guy, who was hot, really, a fucking sketchy hottie, all tall and black haired like some Homme Vogue — French for Hotties — model, his hair always getting into his eyes and his buzzed little goatee itching all the time, making him look thoughtful yet completely fuckable, which he was.

When he opened my jeans and pulled out my pole, he looked a little pale, a little beyond happy. He held me with both hands and said, staring at my cock's single eye, "At last."

Considering the dime sized opening of my piss slot, I was about to consider this guy a bit gone. I never knew anyone to praise the beast so highly. It was a daunting piece — so said my English lit tutor — a dick to fear, according to some of the other guys. It was an asshole stretcher, a mouth wrecker. I'd come to think of hand jobs as the only way I would ever get off — hadn't met a girl or guy willing to actually insert it. I've heard it all when it comes to my dick, but never "At last."

The next thing he said was "We need some lube," his voice strangled. He flicked my dick head with his finger and I nearly came — lube? I was finally going to get some! I watched him undress, undoing his Gucci belt for him, unknotting his Hermes tie. He was too cool for this shit-hole store, but that didn't make much difference to me. He let his pants drop, and I eyeballed his hairy thighs and wanted to feel them against mine, and I stepped toward him.

Jeff said, "I need some Gatorade — I think I'm dehydrated." I stopped at 7-Eleven and stared at his ass as he walked into the store. That was one thing I hadn't ever seen, his bare butt, but it was something I was very interested in, like it was a hobby, something of a pursuit. In jeans it was a sweet bubble. Naked — who knew? Smooth cheeks? Fuzz covered? It was a crapshoot, this second guessing, but crap I wouldn't mind shooting, if you know what I mean.

"Get me something not — you know," I yelled out through the window.

"Too fruity?" he called back. Exactly, I thought.

The buyer didn't really have hair that got into his eyes or a little goatee, and he'd have never made the pages of any fashion mag. He was actually kind of balding and a little on the fat side. And his clothes were all from like the Polo outlet. It didn't matter to me, though, because he was married and had two kids and used to play football in college. All of that was like some sort of aphrodisiac for me. I was the one that pawed him from the start, letting him know from minute one that he could do whatever he wanted to me, that I was his for the taking. He was crazy about my cock, though, cock crazy like you wouldn't believe, throwing himself on it, first his mouth and then his ass. He was fired up and wanted to be tore up — wasn't like the old lady was going to notice or anything, he said to me. He took off his tasseled Cole-Haans. "Do me a favor," he said, holding out a shoe for me. "Smell this and tell me what you think."

I took the shoe and took a big whiff. My cock dripped like a honeycomb. "I think you fucking stink," I said, and he said, "Damn straight," smiling hard and punching my arm.

He started sucking my knob. It's a big old red thing, like a tomato hanging from a fucking thick-ass vine. He made some gurgling noises, some slurping noises, some more gurgling noises. I saw him whip his own out, a nice looking piece of meat, very pink, very straight, very long, rising up out of a thick patch of reddish hair. He swung it around like a bullwhip, and it sprayed out a golden thread of leakage that marked up his Ralph Lauren chinos.

He got his mouth close to my halfway mark, a bulge in a vein that pretty much marked the 4.5 inches of dick, with that much to go to get to the base. He handled my nads hard, like a man, and I stayed quiet enjoying the soft slip of his tongue, the firm grip of his lips. He tugged on my prick for a while, banging his nose into my bush, his fingers moving up toward my butt hole.

The one time I saw Jeff in his boxers — in his room at his parents' house, before he got kicked out for selling acid to his cousins — I was drawn to the swinging bob of his cock as he walked across the room, fresh from a shower and in pursuit of something to put on, probably to cover that swinging bob, that juicy hang. He had a nice body, his stomach all boxed up with mus-cle, his tits not big like mine, but there — enough to want to put your mouth on them. He wasn't into bulk, wasn't bulky himself, no interest in fat hard tits or big wagging quads, but boasting some sweet ass cheeks and knuckle biting thighs — sweet things, those thighs, fucking, sweet!!

We were listening to Ben Folds, getting ready to go see Armageddon. I had a secret boner for Ben Affleck because I figured he had a secret boner for Matt Damon, but I forgot about it after seeing Jeff in his shorts. He put his hands inside them as if I wasn't there. "Dude," he said, running his hands through his perfect fucking hair, "What am I going to wear?"

He came back to the car with a bottle of water for me and a can of Fruity Pop — his idea of a joke. "Don't even," I said, not letting him into the car with the sissy soda. "Just get it the fuck out of here." He took it to a garbage can, holding it like a grenade or a turd.

"Dude," he said. "You are totally fixated on this fruity thing. What is up with that?" He looked at me like I was fucking Winona Ryder, and I felt like a complete asshole, but what was I going to say? How could I explain myself?

"Fuck, man," I said, putting my face in my hands, feeling like Johnny Depp for a minute. "I don't even fucking know," which was about as close to the truth as I cared to go.

He had such sweet colored hair, kind of blond, kind of not. Like how I wanted my own hair to look but couldn't — not really, anyway. I wanted to touch his hair, to put my nose into it, to smell him and lick his scalp and his neck and all the rest of him — all the fucking rest of him! He was narrow but thick, a guy with meat on his bones. He knew that Post Office was a game his parents used to play, an excuse to make out. He said to me once, "Dude, you ever hear of Post Office?" I shook my head, and he said, "It's like this excuse to make out. You go to the post office to get your letter, and the post office is like someone's bedroom, and the letter is 'SWAKed,' man, sealed with a kiss? You never heard of that?"

"Never ever," I said, but I would have liked to have. It was cute and old fashioned and sexy. I would have liked to play Post Office with Jeff.

One of the things about Jeff that bothered me was that he had no idea about my cock — none that I knew of, anyway. Like I said, not everyone said "At last!" like my dick was a fire hydrant in the middle of a desert.

But all Jeff could say about it at this point was What about it? because he hadn't seen it. Now Bryan, he's still talking about it, catching me online, calling me up every once in a while for some pretty hot phone. I can still see his squirming hairy ass — blond, fuzzy cheeks — grinding and chewing, eating up my fat cock slowly, taking the whole thing slowly the way a boa swallows up an armadillo. I was thinking then that he was going to take all of me into him that way. I leaned back in the chair I was sitting on, this dilapidated office chair from like the '40s or something, and watched his ass drop lower and lower, and more of me disappeared, ready to be sucked up into his asshole like some sort of reverse-baby. He had his shirt off by then, and I was playing with the hairs on his back, which I always thought would gross me out but found a little more than kind-of sexy, like I was thinking, This is a GUY, man, a fucking GUY.

"I feel like I'm trying to fit someone's knee up my ass," he said over his shoulder, and I saw beads of sweat on his forehead and across his scalp, clinging to the sparse little hairs there like dew. "You are fucking big, babe," he said, and later, when I was fucking him, the two of us stood and he held onto a wall because I was wailing on his ass, and he kept calling me "Big Man, Big Man," like, "Come on, Big Man, fuck my ass, yeah, fuck it, Big Man!"

"Tell me about your wife," I said, my voice all hoarse and shit, and he started telling me about her tits and how often he fucked her and how she gave the best head, and I started getting dizzy, and my cock felt dizzy too, and I grabbed his titties, these huge fucking red nips — fucking CHERRIES, dude, and I started slamming him, and he said, "Give it to me, Big Man, give it to me." And I did.

He let me squirt off into him, his big shoulders heaving under me, and when I was done, shaking like a weasel, all sweaty across his big back, he shook me off and uncorked himself — the noise we made was fucking gross, I'll tell you — and told me to get down on my knees. I opened my mouth ready for him, and he blasted my face. It wasn't excessive, though — just enough to get me off again, hosing his ankles with a meager yet admirable amount of what I call "the reserves."

We were outside of the mall, and Jeff's shift started in like 20 minutes. He said to me, turning in his seat, bringing one leg up and putting his chin on his knee, "This is so fucking stupid." I asked what, and he said, "Everything, man, everything."

I was wondering if he was scared, because he sounded kind of scared. He looked out at the parking lot. Security drove by, making me feel safe. It was some fucked up looking dude who looked like he was looking for his Siamese twin, and I started thinking about winter because what the fuck did this guy do in the snow without his Siamese twin? Jeff leaned back in his seat, throwing his head back. He made a noise that sounded like AHHH.

"What's up?" I said, because he was scaring me, and I didn't feel safe anymore.

"I can't say," he said, looking at me with these eyes that, like, ripped my heart out, they looked so sad and wet. I wanted to reach out and grab him and hold him, and I wanted to tongue-kiss him until we both died, and the dichotomy was so strong that I just sat there like a fucking mushroom.

"Who killed Kenny this time?" I asked.

"Not funny," he answered.
I decided to be bold for a change. I put my hand on the back of the seat in the general vicinity of his shoulder, close enough to be around him, and I asked him, all sincere and shit, "Dude, are you alright?"

He played with the scuffed hem of his stovepipes and whispered something I couldn't hear. "What was that?" I asked.

"Never mind," he said quietly again, but this time I heard him. He licked the knee of his pants. I felt my thighs through my warm ups, loving the feel of the nylon, thinking about running into the sporting goods store for another pair, these pants were so sexy. My dick rested against my belly, hot and fucking engorged, which was a pretty decent description as far as I was concerned.

"Will you pick me up after work?" he asked me.

I said, "Sure, no problem. " And he got out of my car, not really closing the door. He looked like a kid going to the principal's office. He disappeared behind a Jeep Wagoneer and was gone.

I'll tell you about this "fruity" thing. It's not homophobic, like it sounds. Like I said, I'm cool with the fact that I like dudes who like my dick. When I was a kid, I had this dream that my dad ran away and left us. He didn't just run away, he turned into that big-nosed bird from that cereal commercial and flew away "in search of fruit flavors." I know it doesn't make sense, but it was so fucking real that I woke up screaming. And afterwards, whenever my mom took me to the supermarket and I saw that box, I'd think about that dream and I couldn't wait to get back home and make sure my dad was still there. It's stupid, but it stayed with me. And then one day my dad got this job selling fruit juices and he left town on business, and I never saw him again, and now he's like that fucking bird in my dream. It's like something grabbed him and washed his brain so that he forgot about us — me and my mom. That's why I hate anything fruity.

Stupid, huh?

I waited for him at 9:30. He came out the doors with all the other mall workers, looking fried. "I ate dinner at Chick-fil-A," he said for an explanation. I headed for home, and we almost got there, but he stopped me. "I've got to piss," he said.

"We're almost there," I told him, looking at him, wondering if he really wanted me to stop.

"Dude," he said. "Don't make me wet myself."

I pulled over — what else could I do? — and he stepped off to the side of the road and started pissing. I found a song we liked on the radio and turned it up, mostly to drown out the sound of him pissing, which had given me another boner — making me feel simple and a little like Pavlov's dog, something I learned about in my one semester at Buff. U. He turned around when he was finished and put himself away, and I saw everything — his fucking cock, a drip of pee, his darker-than-his-head pubes, the slow zip of his stoves, and a trail of sparks from his fly.

When he got back into the car, he moved in close to me, closer than he needed to, and I was wondering what was up with that when he told me he had to talk. "Go ahead, dude," I said, fingering the keys in the ignition, not intending to go anywhere until he said so.

"Maybe we could go to your place," he said, because he was living at home again and felt kind of wussed-out as a result.

"Sure," I said. "Whatever."

At my place he flopped down on the couch, and I ran around throwing shit here and there, trying to look like half the pig I really was. Like, anything that was food and moldy went right in the trash, and the dirty clothes went into the coat closet, and the porn magazines — not many! — were all bundled up like old newspapers and thrown behind the bedroom door. I put on Rufus Wainwright on the CD player, followed by the new Luscious Jackson, and tried to chill but couldn't. Jeff was looking at the toes of his Sketchers and making me nervous, looking all Party-of-Fived out.

"What's up," I said, wanting to put my arm around him again as if I'd actually done it before. "Do you want to lie down?"

"What?" he said, looking at me as though I'd asked to eat his liver. And he was lying down already.

"I don't know," I said. I didn't. It was Jeff, here in my living room, in some kind of emotional turmoil. I fed on it and turned it into my own; Jeff with the perfect hair, the cute body, the best ass.

"This music," he said, making a face.

"You don't like it?"

"I want to die," he said.

"I can change it," I said back. "But I don't have any Foreigner, dude."

"This guy is a total fruit-lover, you know." I went pale, feeling it. I could have fainted.

"No way," I said. "Don't fuck with me."

"I swear to God," Jeff said. "I have a friend at Discs 4 U. He fucking told me."

"Not true, not true."

"And one of the girls in Hole."

"Shut up," I said. "I can't hear you anymore." I put my hands over my ears.

He wiggled his fingers, some dumb kind of sign language I didn't get, and he said something I didn't hear, so I said "What?" and he said, "I said, 'I fucking love you.'" "Shut the fuck up," I said.

"Whatever," he said, getting up.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Home, dude, I'm walking home."


He turned around. "I guess because you haven't asked me to stay."

It was weird because it was Jeff, but he let me undress him, and I got a hard-on that like oozed my pants. He didn't want any lights on, but I got him to let me at least light a candle I had from the Bath & Body Works, a gift from an ex-girlfriend. His skin was beautiful, his shoulders so pretty. I kissed them feeling kind of stupid, but what the fuck, and I saw myself as a total Chester, all close and touchy, gross, the kind of friend you don't want to find yourself alone with.

"We could take a bath," Jeff said.

"Yeah," I said. "Sure."
He still had his boxers on, but I could see he had a boner too. He walked to the bathroom, and I followed him, flicking on the switch. "No lights," he said, so I ran back for the candle that smelled like my fucking grandmother and reminded me of a girl I never wanted to see again.

I just want to jump ahead here because what I liked best about the whole thing — even though he, like, completely changed his mind the next day — was the way when it was over and we were dripping onto sheets that smelled a little too much of me, if you know what I mean . . . the best fucking thing was the way that Jeff put his arms around me, holding my head to his chest, where I listened to the bass-beat of his heart, the fill and empty of his lungs, and the little squeaks and gurgles your stomach makes after you eat something at Chick-fil-A.

I filled the bath, squirting in some shampoo for bubbles, and Jeff got himself out of his boxers, and I saw his hard-on for the first time. It was white and beautiful, banana-curved, a righteous sword. His balls dangled low, dark-skinned, almost red in the light of the candle. He stepped into the sudsy water and laughed. "It's fucking hot, dude," he said. "You trying to cook us?"

I still had my clothes on, all of them, although I was desperate to be naked. He squatted slowly in the foam until he could tolerate the heat. I just stood there watching him. He was like something out of a fucking movie, naked like that and beautiful the way he was always beautiful, and I felt like such a fag and I didn't even care, first of all because he said "I love you" first.

I took off my shirt, Jeff staring at me. I felt like a stripper but completely self-conscious. I ran my hand over my pecs because I couldn't help it, wanting to feel how full they felt and to touch my nipples, which always gave me a little rush, anyway. "You're all big 'n' shit," Jeff said, and I said, "Yeah."

"It's cool, though," he said, playing with the candle. I played with the waistband of my warm ups — that's all there was left. Jeff was completely engrossed with trying to burn himself and dripping hot wax into the water. I reached into my pants and tugged my woody, letting him know that I was totally hung and wicked hard, but he was too busy making the bath bubbles disappear.

"Dude," I said, turning sideways casually, wanting him to get the full effect before I set the beast free, changing things forever between us. "Are you into this or what?" I guess I sounded kind of annoyed, because he dropped the candle into the bath.

"Shit!" he said. "Fucking clocked my nuts, man."

I played with the cords that tightened my pants, thinking this was fucked-up, feeling as though my dick was going to burn through the nylon that covered it. I saw him glance at it once, twice; the third time he started staring, and his mouth went open but he didn't say anything. It was time — I had his attention. I took off my pants, turning away from him, showing my bare ass first. When I turned around again, the breath left him. "Dude," he said airlessly. I stepped toward him, the big stick wagging at him. I knelt on the tub's edge, with the heavy, sappy head dipping at his face. He looked around it at me. "Fucking amazing," he said.

"I guess," I said, shrugging. I'd seen bigger, actually, and more than once — one time, up on Skyline Drive, this guy jacking off in his car, fucking whacking his dick against the steering wheel and making the horn blow, and then Donny Hays, this Indian kid I worked with at U R Cool before he got caught blowing a security guard in the public toilets.

What I had going for me was thickness and a huge fucking knob. I gripped the base and swung the hose around a little until I started pulling on my pubes, which kind of hurt. His mouth was close and it was open, but he wasn't doing anything with it. He played with himself underwater. "Awesome dick, man!" he said, sounding all sincere.

"You want me to come in?" I asked. I bobbed myself in front of him, feeling buzzed and juicy, ready for anything. Jeff shrugged his shoulders.

"What do you feel like doing?" I said, and he shrugged again, staring at my prick.

"Lick it," I told him, dropping my voice, making it sound — I hoped — sexy. "Lick my dick, dude," I said.

I was shocked when I saw his tongue, more shocked when I felt it. It was hot like a flame, swirling into the fat piss slit then dragging around the head. He turned his head and had my balls in his mouth, sucking them hard, making me feel queasy and real turned-on. He took his wet hands out of the tub and grabbed my hips, holding them hard, and he got the head of me into his mouth, tongue dancing wild.

What the fuck, I was thinking, what the fucking fuck! Everything was normal one minute — as normal as things get with me — and then this shit happens. It was too much like a dream, too unreal, too good to be true. I started thinking about all those times I was laid up with an aching boner because he let his pants drop low on his ass, or reached up under his shirt to play with the feathery hairs there, or grabbed my tit and pinched the hell out of it just for the hell of it, or pissed right next to me like I wasn't there at all. And here he was now, struggling with my swollen knob, two-fisting it, giving me the chills and sweats all at once.

He rose up out of the tub, all shiny and wet, suds dripping off him the way I wanted to, and he let my dick swing from his mouth. "Ever get fucked?" he wanted to know.

"Only once," I said, a painful confession and a lie too. I'd gotten rammed a few times, up on Skyline on those afternoons I had off, guys with pickups and dirty fingernails and little bent dicks wanting to pop my cherry — as if.

"Let me see it," he said, and I turned around and bent over for him. I put my hands on my cheeks and spread them for him, giving him an excellent view of my pink asshole, knowing this because of the breeze he blew over it.

He licked me there — now that was a first, for real — and wiggled his tongue into the wrinkled opening, which he replaced with his finger. Through my legs he grabbed my balls and started sucking on them at the same time, and I was ready to die because what else was there, man, what else?

When he slapped his own pointy pecker head against my pucker, I opened up big-time, leaning back against him and trying to get him inside me fast. I wanted all of him in me, as much as I could get, and he put his hands on my shoulders and slid in slow until I could feel his hips against my ass and his dick end somewhere up in my guts. "How is it?" I wanted to know.

"You tell me," he said.


"Fucking right," he said, shoving in, his body taking over mine like I never imagined. His hands went all over my chest, squeezing my tits until I thought I would shoot and fucking me harder all the while. He roamed over my abs until he got hold of my big cock, taking it with both hands again and pulling on it, thumbing the sticky head, causing some serious leakage.

"You leak as much as I come," he said, laughing, and I banged my ass against him.

"Easy," he whispered. "Easy, easy, easy." But I didn't want it easy. I fucked myself on his bone, grooving on the fiery slide it made up into my asshole, digging his wild balls bucking against my own wet skin bag hanging between my legs. I reached behind me and took one of his pale nips into an easy pinch, tugging on it and making him moan. "Oh, fuck," he said, warning me, and I steadied myself, ready for whatever he was about to give up.

"Dude!" he said. "I'm going to — "

"Whatever, man, whatever."

"It's cool?" he asked, missing a beat, and I helped him pick it up, sliding my butt down his shiny pole. "Fuck," he said, then breathed and started digging into me, drilling my ass with power thrusts, gripping my dick like it was what kept him alive, and I felt myself jell, ass-cheeks puffing, cock cream flying out of his fists.

Like I said, he held me later on in my bed, doing it all over again — this time by hand, which was cool too — and I had my head against his chest and it was fucking beautiful, just fucking beautiful.

And like I said, he changed his fucking mind the next day, waking up straight again and totally not into guys. We stayed friends for a while, but it was fucking strange, you know, having had his dick up my ass. It was kind of hard looking at him and not dropping a wasted load into my shorts.

I went to the lake one day and looked across it. I couldn't see far, but that was OK. I knew I was going to find someone I liked as much as Jeff; it was just going to take some time. The new guy at U R Cool was giving me some vibes and staring at my crotch, like, every time we closed, so who knows?

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