Mike and Danny: Straight Crush
Note that these stories, including this one, are not an endorsement of unsafe sex. They take place many years before the appearance of AIDS and before it was standard practice to use condoms to reduce the risk of infection from sexually transmitted diseases. Remember always: that was then, this is now. Sex is precious, and so are life and health.
Chapter 1
Kirk
Showing up at his Uncle Mike's door was always a gamble. Mike was unpredictable, and you could never guess what kind of mood he was going to be in.
And it didn't seem to make a difference if Danny was around. If anything, it was worse then. Mike could make you feel like you were busting up something. Like you were trying to get between a mama cow and her calf.
Danny could actually be OK. At least he didn't give Kirk that look of "What do you want?"
Though after Kirk had borrowed Danny's car that time and got it stolen off him, Danny would never loan him anything again—not even a fucking pen to write him a check. Even though it wasn't even Kirk's fault that the car got totaled.
To be honest, Kirk didn't have money in the bank to write a check, but it was the principle of the thing. A man shouldn't need to hold a grudge forever, for crissake.
Meanwhile, Mike couldn't bring himself to tell Kirk to go to hell. If you showed up at the door, there may be no celebration, like the fatted calf for the prodigal son—and even his Mormon mother would forgive him, if only for remembering his Bible stories—but Mike would feed him and let him stay for a while, until he was ready to move on again.
Finally, he and his uncle were family. Mike felt responsible for him, and that was always good for something.
This time he was just passing through, on his way from Lubbock, where he'd hung out for the winter, looking for some work. Then it was back in the pickup, heading north over the plains to Nebraska, where it was calving time again at Don's ranch in the Sandhills.
Don was another one. Even though he wasn't kin, and even though he and Mike had been old friends once, Don felt obliged somehow to look after Kirk a little, and give him a job when he needed it after getting out of the service. It was always there waiting, as long as he worked hard and didn't get caught screwing off.
"Yeah, come on up," Don had said when Kirk called from Texas. "We can use you. Calves'll be dropping any day now."
It made him feel kind of wanted when Don talked to him that way. Something he'd never get from Mike.
He'd probably have driven on through to Don's ranch without stopping, but there'd been that episode at the rest stop in Kansas, and he'd lost some time.
A message had been penciled on the tile over one of the urinals, with the time— noon to four—and another to "service your giant cock." Giant he wasn't, but big enough, and horny enough. He'd been rubbing his wranglers off and on for the last fifty miles or more, entertaining daydreams of picking up a willing hitchhiker.
He checked his watch—twenty past twelve.
The message had him looking for a white van in the parking lot, but when he stepped outside in the raw March day—the sky gray with a thin layer of clouds, a cold gust of wind sending candy wrappers and Styrofoam cups to fly around in circles—the parking lot was empty, except for his old GMC pickup with the bad muffler and rust in the wheel wells.
He decided to wait a while and shoved some coins in a vending machine for a Payday. He'd give it fifteen or twenty minutes, and if the guy didn't show up he'd get back on the road.
The peanuts were stale, as he figured they would be, but the caramel was gooey and sweet—and god knows he had a sweet tooth. Tossing the wrapper away, he stood outside his truck, leaning on the front fender. It was cold on his butt, and the wind cut through around one knee where the worn denim had frayed and pulled apart.
He wore a tan, sweat-stained cowboy hat, and as the brim caught the wind he tugged it tighter on his head. After standing there a moment he crossed one leg over the other to keep his balls warm.
Then he shoved his hands in the pockets of the coat he was wearing, a flannel-lined denim jacket he'd taken from a bar once in Tulsa. There'd been rubbers in the pocket and a pair of glasses with bifocals. Some old guy, he thought, still hosing somebody he probably shouldn't of.
He kept the glasses for a long time, wearing them once to study himself in a mirror. And with the Fu Manchu he was growing, they gave him a kind of cock-eyed look that was good for a laugh on a slow night at the bar. And then one day he lost them.
He checked his watch again. Quarter to one. If the guy was a regular, hanging out here every afternoon, hard telling if he was held up somewhere or taking the day off.
The taste of the candy bar lingered in his mouth, and he worked his tongue over a piece of peanut lodged against one of his molars. Finally, he tried to dislodge it with one of his fingers.
All around, in every direction, it was hundreds of acres of open fields, with a pale green carpet of winter wheat beginning to sprout. The road was a divided highway, with wide shallow ditches on both sides, but in the way of highways on the plains connecting no two places in particular, it was not heavily traveled.
Most of the time it was empty and silent. He'd hear an engine in the distance, and his dick would quicken as he waited for the vehicle to appear. Then coming over a low rise, it would be a truck or a car and roll by without stopping.
Then he turned and glanced over his shoulder as a white van passed on the other side of the median. The driver looked over at him and didn't look away. In two minutes it came back, coming the opposite direction, and Kirk guessed that it had turned around at a crossover for service vehicles and patrol cars.
Sure enough, it slowed and pulled into the rest stop, coming toward him. Kirk watched without moving, finally taking one hand from the jacket and hooking a thumb into his jeans pocket, so his fingers pressed down toward his cock.
The van pulled up behind the pickup and the driver rolled down the window.
"Hey, cowboy," he said. "Waitin' for somebody?" He was a few years older than Kirk, maybe thirty, and starting to lose his hair. He wore coveralls, like maybe he was a workman or technician.
"Could be," Kirk said.
The guy didn't look like a rough customer. Kirk was sure he could take him if he had to. But you never knew. A weapon pulled out of nowhere could be a real equalizer.
"I know a place we can go," the guy said. "You wanna?"
Kirk didn't move at first, just folded his arms across his chest, still sizing up the guy—making him wait.
"Course, if you don't wanna," the guy said, looking away, his voice faltering, like he sensed Kirk wasn't interested.
"I can pay you," the guy said, turning to him again. "How much do you want?"
Kirk was beginning to really enjoy this and felt his cock surge in his jeans. He'd never done sex for money. He'd only just taken it afterwards, if he found it.
"I don't want your money," he finally said, like only a fool would think he did. "Where's this place you got in mind?"
"Over there a ways," the guy said, nodding toward a cluster of trees in the distance, around what looked like some buildings—maybe an abandoned farmstead.
"I'll follow you," Kirk said and finally stepped away from the truck, where he'd been leaning.
The van waited as he got in the truck and started the engine. Then it slowly pulled away and Kirk got behind it, as they headed toward the long entrance ramp onto the highway.
By now his dick was hard and throbbing in his jeans. He felt his heart beating in his shirt. He thought of the guy ahead of him in the van, no doubt in the same condition.
They drove a couple miles to the next exit and got off the highway again, taking a straight, wide gravel road, the hard surface rumbling under the truck's tires. The trees and farm buildings grew closer, and he followed as the van turned onto the narrow road leading over to them.
They stopped behind a large aluminum shed, where a concrete slab led up to a pair of big sliding doors. The leafless stalks of last summer's weeds stood along the walls.
Beyond was the ghostly shell of a vacant house, surrounded by old, wind-mangled cottonwood trees, the earliest spring green coloring the branches. Further on was a dilapidated barn, the roof sagging, and daylight showing through where slats of siding were missing.
Kirk switched off the truck's engine and took it all in, gazing through the mud-streaked windshield. Something in him loved deserted places, where people had lived, had worked, and were now gone. Walking in the footsteps of these absent strangers, he felt alive—like the last man on earth.
The other guy stepped out of the van and came toward him. He was not tall, but big inside his coveralls, a big chest and the beginnings of a belly pushing out of the front of them.
He had put on a cap, the kind with earflaps to fold down from inside. "Brownie's Electric" it said across the front. And when he got to Kirk's window, Kirk could see the guy's name sewn in a patch above the pocket, "Scooter."
The zipper of the coveralls was pulled down a few inches, and Kirk could see that he was wearing a plaid flannel shirt, with a tee shirt under that and tufts of hair escaping over the neckband.
He was doe-eyed, his forehead furrowed with something between doubt and hope. Surely some mother's thoughtful son. He had full lips, red against his winter-pale skin, and Kirk imagined them closing around his hard dick.
Kirk rolled down his window, the handle creaking. "You ever done this before?" he said.
"Sure," the guy said. "Lotsa times." Kirk wasn't convinced. He unlatched the door and it popped open in the frame. The guy stepped back with a little start, blinking once.
With the door all the way open, Kirk turned sideways in the seat. He wore no underwear—as he'd been told was the custom among cowboys—and already a spot pf precum had soaked through along the inside of his thigh. He spread his legs and reached for his belt buckle.
"Not here," the guy said, nodding with his head toward the van. "Let's do it in there."
And he opened the back of the van, where the light of mid-day revealed a floor covered with blue industrial carpet. A case of tools was pushed against one wall, and on the floor there were old newspapers, a pair of rubber boots, and a scattering of gum wrappers.
They climbed inside, and with the door shut again, it smelled a little like cleaning chemicals. Dim light filtered in from the windshield.
Kirk took off his hat, lay down on his back, and opened his jeans. His cock rolled out, still hard. "Go to town," he said, putting his hands behind his head.
The guy was on his knees now, unmoving, just studying him.
"Big enough for ya?" Kirk said.
The guy glanced into his eyes for a moment, then along the length of his body, like he was memorizing it.
"Yeah," he said finally.
"Well, don't take all day," Kirk said.
"I wasn't gonna."
"It's kinda cold in here and my nuts are freezin'." This was not exactly true, but he'd been ready for this for over an hour. The back of his mouth was gluey with the thick taste of sex.
With that the guy covered Kirk's balls with his hand, which was colder even than the air.
Then, turning his cap backward, he closed his eyes and bent forward over Kirk. In a moment there was the sweet sensation of a wet, warm tongue on his cock. Without willing the movement, his hips lifted into the guy's face. He ached to be sucked and sucked hard.
"Ahhh," he sighed, when he felt himself slip inside the guy's mouth.
And he let himself glide, eyes closed, into a slow-motion bucking bronco ride, rising and coming down again, free falling and not falling, lighting always and exactly on the horse, an eternity of eight seconds turning into an eternity of wonder that one man—this man—could feel so goddam good.
And the guy knew how to suck cock. No doubt about that.
"Hold it, hold it," Kirk said after a while, forcing himself back to consciousness and pushing the guy away from him.
Getting up on one knee, he reached for the zipper on the guy's coveralls, pulling it down to his waist.
"I want you to take those off," he said.
The guy looked at him, uncertain.
"Do it," Kirk said.
And he did, kicking off his shoes, to get them over his feet. All the time looking at Kirk's dick dancing between his legs through is open fly.
"Now, the pants," Kirk said. And the guy sat on the floor pulling in his gut and unbuckling his belt. In a moment he was jerking down the zipper, his white briefs showing through his open fly.
"Over," Kirk said, not waiting, wanting him on his knees and elbows, and when he'd turned around, Kirk pulled down the guy's pants and shorts.
"Your name really Scooter?" he said.
"Yes, it is."
"Well, Scooter, today's your lucky day," Kirk said, getting behind him and working for a minute until he'd got himself started into him.
The guy cried out but didn't pull away. And little by little—though Kirk wanted to shove himself in hard and fast—he felt his cock gradually enter, held tight, until there was no more of him to go.
Rocking now, easy, he held him by the hips, feeling the smooth bare skin under his shirt, pressing down on him with his full weight as he thrust into him, finding again that eight-second eternity.
And riding it to the end.
Yelling, "Hell, yeah," as he finally flew up and up and up, landing at last in what he liked to call cowboy heaven, emptying himself, and still emptying himself, until there was nothing left but little twitching jerks, each one sweet and deep and warm. Finally, he rolled onto his back, his jeans around his knees, his wet dick slapping onto his belly.
He lay there breathing hard for a while, only half aware that the guy was lying beside him now, watching him, and finally reaching over to him to put his hand on Kirk's arm.
It was a light touch, like a bird joining a row of other birds on a telephone wire. And it stayed there, as a bird does, while Kirk closed his eyes again and drifted like a cloud of dust on a country road after a car has passed.
"Are you a real cowboy?" Scooter said.
Kirk took a while to answer and then nodded.
"Rodeo cowboy?"
Kirk nodded again.
"What do you ride?" The hand then lifted from Kirk's arm.
Kirk turned his head to look at the guy. He was lying on his side, his pants still part way down, and in the folds of his wrinkled shirttail he was softly stroking his cock.
"Bulls," Kirk said, which was a lie. He'd wanted to be a bull rider, but it took more nerve than he had. He was starting to get too old for it anyway.
"Aw, a bull rider," Scooter said, smiling, and kept stroking himself.
As far as Kirk was concerned, he was done and ready to get back on the road. The guy probably wanted some help blowing his load, but Kirk had nothing to do with other men's cocks. He didn't care to touch them or get touched by them. Ever since he'd been big enough and strong enough to keep it from happening. Better to give than to receive, he liked to say with a wink.
He reached down to his jeans and started hiking them up. As he lifted his butt off the floor, he felt his dick slide along his skin, still fat and oozing the last of his cum.
"No, wait," Scooter said. "Just keep talking to me for a while."
Kirk didn't stop. "Got nothing to say," he said, getting his butt down into the seat of the jeans, the bottom of the open zipper now snug against his balls.
"What's your name?" Scooter said.
"Merle," Kirk said. It was an easy lie he'd used before.
"Like Merle Haggard?"
"Yeah."
"I like him," Scooter said smiling, his eyes flickering shut for a moment and then opening again to look into Kirk's face and down his body to watch Kirk stuffing himself into his jeans, then pulling up his zipper.
Normally, Kirk liked catching another man's eye, working on a job somewhere or just standing along a street or at a bar. He liked being sized up, appreciated, especially when he was horny and looking for something quick in a truck stop parking lot or a deserted men's room.
But spent and feeling no urge rising in him, this being looked at with such hunger was unsettling. Even for him, it was too raw.
"You from around here?" Scooter said.
"Just passing through," Kirk said. He looked around on the floor for his hat.
"Where ya headed?" The eyes went shut again, this time longer. Kirk looked down at the guy's dick. It was not long but a good distance around. The skin was loose and he worked it back and forth, the end of it almost disappearing with each pull.
"Montana," Kirk lied again. "Miles City."
"Never been there," Scooter said, beginning to double-time his strokes. "I hear Montana's real pretty." He opened his eyes again and looked into Kirk's with such helpless yearning Kirk felt frozen in his growing discomfort and wanted more than anything to get the hell out of the van.
"Hey, Scooter, I gotta go," he said.
"Not yet, not yet," the guy pleaded and closed his eyes tight for a moment. "Just a little while longer. I'm almost done."
"Well, aim that damn thing the other way," Kirk said. "You got me right in the line of fire."
"OK, OK," Scooter said. He was breathing harder now.
And Kirk lay there, leaning now on one elbow as he waited for the guy to finish, steeling himself against the nakedness of the guy's aching desire, telling himself he would never, ever need another man so desperately.
Then with a quick sudden shudder, Scooter stopped breathing for a second and let out a high cry as his cum streamed from him, dancing in arcs through the air and falling into the carpet.
He kept stroking, slower now, milking the last spasms of cum that spilled from the end of his cock. It looked, Kirk realized, like he was holding a little gawping fish in his grip, squeezing it with one slow stroke after another until it was finally still. The guy rolled onto his back now sighing, his hand still tight around his dick.
Kirk sat up now, putting on his hat, and crawled across the carpet to the rear doors of the van.
"Will you be coming back this way, Merle?" Scooter asked him, not moving.
Kirk stepped out into the gray afternoon. "Yeah," he said. "Sure."
As he buckled his belt, he looked into the sky, where the sun shone as a patch of white brightness in the clouds and felt his cock in his jeans, still half-hard, but numb, drained, tingling. And he stood there for a moment, stretching the stiffness out of his legs before walking to his truck.
He'd quickly forgotten about Scooter. There was nothing to remember anyway.
If anything, what had come back to him afterward was the fury he felt driving his cock into him again and again. Losing himself in those seconds, every ounce of him, every memory, everything disintegrating into the burst of fire between his legs.
"Hell, yeah," he'd said again, letting a grin turn up one corner of his mouth, as the odometer clicked over another mile, and in a while he'd crossed the state line, leaving Kansas behind.
Hours later, the truck's headlights swept across the barn and then the house as he pulled off the road onto Mike's place. The last twilight of a late winter evening had left the western sky, and it was now dark.
Now, the sound of his boot heels on the walk leading to Mike's house, his thoughts were set on the next thing—discovering what kind of mood Mike was in and, after a couple beers, taking a shower and getting some shut eye.
He walked through the door without knocking and stepped inside. The warm air of the kitchen smelled of cooked food from supper, and though he'd stopped for chicken fried steak and gravy an hour before, he was hungry again.
Continued . . .