Date: Fri, 21 Sep 2007 17:54:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: Neil Entib <nifty_ntib@yahoo.com>
Subject: It Began at Woolworth's

Author's Note:  The following is purely a work of fiction.  It contains
consensual acts (mostly) between a young boy and an older man.  If anything
related to this subject is illegal for you to read where you are, or if you
disagree with it, feel free to stop reading.  Otherwise, lube up and enjoy!


It Began at Woolworth's
Copyright MMVII Neil Entib


I was driving the other day, on my way to visit my grandson in Michigan,
when I nearly died.  Not because I'm an old fart, mind you; sixty-six is
old but not as old as it used to be.  They make pills for everything
nowadays, it seems.

You see, it's not every day you experience a total and complete recall of a
childhood memory from just driving by a building.  It's amazing the number
of memories you either suppress or filter out as you age, only to have one
or two flood your mind decades later.  Well, folks, that's what Woolworth's
did to me.

***

People underestimate the value of a good road trip.  In this world of
fly-everywhere-and-don't-stop-to-smell-the-roses, no one cares about taking
a little extra time and money to hop in the car and enjoy the view on the
way there.  Mind you, Las Vegas to Dearborn is a long drive, but I'm
retired and thus have nothing better to do with my time.

The old Eldorado was holding up just fine when I entered Davenport, Iowa by
way of Interstate 80.  I was maintaining a healthy clip of 70mph and
listening to Paul Harvey when I spied it--right there on the other side of
the Welcome Way off-ramp.  Its side was long and subtle, painted a drab
shade of sun-faded beige, its lower half spotted with grey where some young
punks had taken it upon themselves to spray their names, or whatever it is
they do.

I could just make out the first five letters, or rather the shadows of
where they had been from the dirt built up in convenient patterns on the
concrete.  W-O-O-L-W, it said, but it wasn't merely the name that sent some
rather erotic pictures through my head and nearly caused me to roll my
vehicle into the grass shoulder.  I remembered the building itself, not as
I saw it, but as a shell of unfinished concrete and rebar amid a sea of
dusty bare ground and large metal machines, a playground for men through
the eyes of a young boy...

***


My grandfather was a trucker.  I know what you're saying right now.  "Oh,
great, not another story with truckers!"  Well, I'm sorry to have to
disappoint you, but if you want to hear me out you'll accept the mundane
circumstances through which I was first exposed to the sexualization of my
youth.

You can't really know why old people today always yearn for the past
without having grown up in the past.  Back in 1950 the world was a simpler
place, blah, blah, blah, and you know all the rest.  Well, it was.  My
grandpa was in his fifties and, in his own stubborn opinion, he thought he
had a good many years ahead of him before he could even think about
retiring.

The summer of my ninth year was hot, unusually so for Omaha.  Slated for
fifth grade in the start of September, by the first week of June I had
annoyed my parents to no end with a lazy attitude and an inability to do
chores despite having all the free time in the world.  So my father, in his
infinite wisdom (and a frustrated libido, I can only now assume), decided
it would be a "character-building experience" for my grandpa to take me on
the road for a couple of weeks.  If I didn't take to it, we could swing
back by the homestead and drop me off.  But if it didn't chafe me much, I
could stay the whole summer if I took a liking to life on the road.

To be honest, I first balked at the idea as my underhanded parents' need to
get me out of the house for the summer and out of their hair.  That was
only partly true, and they did not deny that specific reason.  But, the way
my grandfather explained it to me, one day out on the porch drinking REAL
lemonade, he made it sound like the adventure of a lifetime.  Even better
than Boy Scout camp!  Being nine years old, I didn't think that was
possible.

Seeing the country, going to bed in a different city every night, helping
the good ol' U.S. of A. along by getting the goods where they needed to go
so the workers could build their buildings and life could improve wherever
we traveled.  These were the things Grampa told to me as we sipped our
beverages, sweetened with actual sugar, and sweated our way through the hot
Nebraska summer.

It didn't take much convincing for me to realize I would be missing out on
an opportunity-if not a positive one, then a very interesting one to say
the least.  Grampa was down in Tulsa when I made my decision, and he took a
break the next day to swing up and collect me.  You should have seen the
look on his face when he stepped down from that big Studebaker and walked
up to me, standing there on the sidewalk in my T-shirt, shorts and a small
army duffel at my side.  His face was warm, his bright blue eyes shining
from within their wrinkled environment.  I look in the mirror some days and
I can see the exact same thing in my face, in my own wrinkles.

It makes me smile.

"So, Chas, you think your boy's ready for life on the road?" Grampa asked
in his big, booming baritone.  Mom and Dad were standing behind me, Dad
with his unlit pipe between his lips and Mom holding onto him in her yellow
sundress.  She must have been scared for me, letting me do something so
reckless in her opinion.  But she stood by her husband, and her
father-in-law as well.

"If he can sit around not doing chores and listening to the radio all day,
I think he can take some real work for a change.  Can't you, Bud?"  My name
is William, but people always call me Bud or Mack.  Always have, and always
will, I suppose.  Dad nodded in my direction.

"I prob'ly won't even get to do anything fun," I replied, only
half-serious.  "I can't go on any sites or life stuff or nothin'."

Grandpa chuckled knowingly, as grandfathers are known to do when they've
been there and done that.  "Buddy-boy, you'll get to help out more than you
think.  There's more to haulin' construction materials than drivin' around
and parkin'.  You stick with me for a few runs and you'll see."  Then he
winked at me, and though that wink was purely platonic and not suggestive
in any way, later events would cause me to think upon that moment more
carefully.

Mom chimed in then: "Honey, you'd better get going.  I'm sure Grampa has a
load to pick up.  Don't you, Howard?"  Mom wasn't trying to get me out as
much as she wanted me to be gone before she started crying.  I knew this
fact well, and gathered my stuff together and headed for the truck.

"As a matter of fact, I do," replied the old man, patting the top of my
head as I ran with my things across the street to the massive vehicle
parked and idling roughly at the curb.  It was big, and red, and as I
climbed the two steps in order to reach the door handle I was struck with
the thought that I didn't know how I would sleep with this beast vibrating
under me so hard.

It took some doing, but I managed to hoist my bag into the passenger seat
and then into the back.  Now, any of you who have been on a sleeper-type
truck know the amenities they put into one of those things.  Well, there
weren't any of those back then fifty-seven years ago.  What I found was a
spartan space good for not much more than sleeping: a thin curtain
separated the sleeping area from the rest of the cab, and in the
excessively small crawlspace was room for two bunks stacked like steerage
on the Titanic.  Nothing else.  No windows, no cubbyholes, no outlets.  Not
even vents for air conditioning.  Trucks like this weren't cheap, either,
so I knew this was a genuine treat from Grampa.

After numerous tries, I eventually threw up my bag to the upper bunk, where
it rolled into the corner and stayed.  Suddenly I was overtaken by a sense
of what I like to call HEA.  HEA stands for Happily Ever After, and I
describe it as a quick onset of a general feeling of well-being, where you
just stop in the middle of everything and it seems like all is well and
good in your life, like you're supposed to be here according to God's good
plan and, at least for a little while, you're right in the tracks where he
wants you to be.  I blissed out on that feeling and closed my eyes,
watching the orange-teal light from behind my eyelids dance and change with
the movement of the curtain.

***


I woke up in a state of mild panic.  My first thought was Whoa, how did I
fall asleep with that truck so loud and rumbly?  It was still light out,
but it still made for a disorientation that was slightly uncomfortable.
The second thought was something along the lines of wondering why the
engine was running so high, its vibrations all but gone and turned to a
whine throughout the cabin.  I surmised that we were moving, that Grampa
had finished his talk with the parents and didn't want to disturb my
slumber.  I was half-right on that one.

Pushing the curtain aside and blinking the sleep-crust from my eyes, I
looked straight out the windshield to see green farm fields along either
side of us.  Before I had a chance to look too long, I felt a heavy hand
settle on my left shoulder.

"Have a nice nap, Bud?" asked Grampa without taking his eyes off the road.
I nodded, knowing he could see me in his periphery.  He nodded back.  "Go
ahead and buckle in if you plan on stayin' up front here with me.  Safety
first."  Wordlessly, I hopped into the passenger seat and drew the belt
around myself.  Thusly secured, I could take my time scanning the
surrounding landscape.  There wasn't much to see, but since I hadn't ever
been out of Nebraska I didn't know where we were.

So I asked.  "Where are we?"

"Iowa, just east of Des Moines," said the old man, who bounced along with
the highway in his spring-seat.  No air support in those days, no siree.
"We're already loaded and headed to Davenport, son.  You must have been
tired."

"I...I wasn't asleep that long," I defended, thinking Grampa must have
picked up his load in Omaha and got going fast.

"You sure were.  You do know you slept all night, right?  It's nine in the
morning."

"Whoa, I slept that long?  When did you sleep, though?"  Only now I realize
how naïve that statement had to have come out sounding.

"I didn't, Bud.  I turned the truck off after talking to your mom and dad,
because I was going to come and get you.  My load was delayed, so I decided
to stay the night.  When I came up to check on ya, I couldn't get a rise
out so I let you sleep in here.  You never woke up, I guess.  Lucky."

I just stared straight ahead, not believing I'd been asleep for almost
fifteen hours.  That kind of schedule would become a regularity in my
pubescent years, turn into insomnia from college until middle age, and
revert back to its former self around ten years ago.  I can now take a nap
at the drop of a hat, and I'm glad for the privilege.  But wake me up and
I'll be as alert as you wish.  I don't believe in "groggy."

"Did I miss anything?" I asked, for lack of anything smarter to say.

"Not really.  Started out at five this morning, drove to Council Bluffs to
pick up a bunch of two-by-fours, strapped down and I've been driving ever
since.  It's been like this all morning.  Nothin' special.  Hope you don't
get bored too soon."  Grampa was smiling as he said this, though, which led
me to believe he wasn't entirely serious.  He once told me that there was
no such thing as a normal day in trucking.  No uninteresting days, either.
Little did I know how I would find out how true that was later on, and how
Grampa would never know the difference.

"How long until we get to Davenport?"  I was starting to sound like a
typical nine-year-old, but there really wasn't another line of questioning
to pursue.

"Oh, it's about two hours, but the load isn't set to deliver until
afternoon, so I thought I would stop for some breakfast, if you're hungry."
I nodded, and that was that.

Of course, not long after Grampa had uttered the word "breakfast" my
stomach began its unruly grumbling and I stated this out loud, after which
the old man began looking for truck stops on the side of the road.  We
stopped just past Iowa City for a breakfast break and thorough explanation
of the trucking industry.

My grandfather was an independent trucker, what we call "Owner-Operators"
today.  He owned his truck outright, had been driving that particular truck
for four years (it was the first one he'd had with a sleeper) and partnered
with a good friend who acted as dispatcher.  Through the use of personal
telephones as well as payphones (no cell phones back then, can you
imagine?), the dispatcher scouted around for loads while Grampa drove,
hooking him up with a pickup close to his drop-off point.  The loads could
deliver anywhere, which meant Grampa could go anywhere in the country, and
he already had many times.

I pelted him with a barrage of questions over a hearty plate of eggs over
easy, bacon, hashbrowns and grits.  I washed it all down with a tall glass
of orange juice, commenting how seventy-five cents was a little pricey for
just breakfast.  Grampa said he had the money and believed it was the key
to a good rest of the day, which health experts still maintain to this day.
Except the eggs should be cholesterol-free, the bacon fat-free or replaced
with tofu, and the hashbrowns replaced with fresh fruit.  I miss the old
days.

We left Phyllis, our server, a hefty tip (Grampa said truckers were
notoriously cheap tippers) and got back into the truck, satisfied and
energized.  The rest of the way to Davenport was filled with small-talk,
both about me and school and trucking and Grampa and my late grandmother,
who had died of cancer after the War.  I had never spent so much time alone
with the old man, not even at Christmas, and already I felt a swelling in
my heart that meant we were bonding closer together.  It was nice, and I
knew I would stay on for at least a week, if not the whole rest of the
summer.

I saw the construction site before my grandfather did: we were pulling off
the highway when I pointed out a large concrete pad surrounded on two sides
by skeletal walls of lumber.  It was the only site in the area, so by
process of elimination I made the genius statement: "I see it right there,
grampa, right there!" and pointed out the windshield.

Grampa nodded.  "That's what my map says, all right."  He shifted down a
couple gears and swung wide off the highway and made an immediate left to
get to the site.  Nothing else surrounded this patch of barren land
surrounded by a chain-link fence.  "Let's see if we can get somebody's
attention."  With that, he blared the truck's massive horns, loud enough to
make me cover my ears inside the cab.  I understand there are laws against
that type of thing today.

Evidently, this sort of behavior was meant as an actual message, because no
sooner than we had pulled off that first blast, a man in a red hardhat came
jogging up to the truck.  Grampa rolled down the window.  I strained to
hear the conversation.

 "What do you got for me?"

"Buncha too-bah-fers for your project; where you wanna offload me?"

"Pull in the gate and straight alongside the building.  We're gonna crane
it from the trailer!"  I could tell the man, obviously the foreman, was
yelling, yet his voice barely carried into the cab.  Grampa nodded and
ground into gear, pulling into the dirt yard about ten feet from the edge
of the concrete, pulled the breaks, and shut down the engine.  The silence
was a noise in itself, after all that rumbling and idling.

"Come on, Bud," said Grampa, handing me my own personal hardhat (they do
make child-size, you know) before we both got out.  It wasn't too hot yet,
but there weren't any clouds; rainstorms from the night before had kept the
humidity in the air.  I felt sorry for the men I saw scattered around the
site; they would have to work all day in that heat and sun while Grampa and
I rode in air-conditioned goodness.  Oh well, it was their choice.

The foreman in the red hat approached us and, after shaking hands with
Grampa, said, "Thanks for getting this here on time; you wouldn't believe
how many loads get here late because of stupid ass...stupid people making
mistakes."  He was looking at me, gauging whether I had heard his
almost-swear or not.  I had, but it wasn't like I hadn't heard "asshole"
uttered a thousand times before.

"Hey, it's part of my job.  It's my bread and butter.  If a man has
integrity, is he still really a man?"  That was a little deeper than I
could fathom, but the foreman seemed to understand it enough to smile about
it.  He looked at me.

"And who's your little helper?  Grandson?"

"Yup, this here's Bud.  Parents got tired of having him laying around all
summer long and sent him on the road with me.  This'll be his first site."

The foreman scruffed my hair.  Adults always seemed to like scruffing my
hair, as if I were a favored pet.  "You think you can pitch in around the
old man, huh?  Well, you got your work cut out for you.  This here's real
man's work.  Building stuff's fun, but you gotta do it right.  You're just
delivering the goods, so you don't have to worry about that."

"But you guys put it all together," I chimed in.

"Right-o," said the foreman.

I looked at the existing lumber walls.  The concrete pad was huge...at
least it looked huge to me at the time.  "What's this gonna be, mister?"

"In a few months this is going to be the first Woolworth's in Davenport,"
the foreman said proudly.  "We get to put the building up and get the roof
on, but after that it's up to someone else to put all the decorations and
clothing and stuff in."

"Wow!" I exclaimed, unable to fathom at the time how men could build such
structures with their bare hands.  Then again, I saw the Empire State
Building and the Statue of Liberty and thought nothing of their
construction either.  Both men laughed at me in their state of adult
knowing, then turned to each other.

"Start unstrapping and I'll grab the crane guy."  Grampa nodded and set to
work.  He pulled out his trucker bar and showed me the fine art of
unstrapping a load: put the bar in the hole, push down until the pin
loosens enough to get your finger in, then pull the strap out all the way.
Pull the strap from the other side and wrap it, using a twisting motion
with your wrists until it's nice and tight.  Store the straps and you're
done.  He had me do a couple, and I proved my mettle by hanging off the bar
until Grampa was just able to get his finger in.  I simply didn't weigh
enough to apply that kind of force, but I tried my best and made Grampa
laugh, which always made me feel good.

The construction guys meant business, all right.  no sooner than we had
stored our last straps in the sidebox than the crane swooped down with long
looped straps of its own.  Two riggers pulled the loops down under the
pallets of wood and signaled the crane operator to lift away.  And, just
like picking up an ant with your fingers, up went thousands of pounds of
wood, to be deposited in the center of the building for distribution.
Being a typical young boy, I watched, fascinated, for the first ten minutes
before my mind began to wander, as did my eyes.  Grampa was on the other
side of the truck, having a cigarette and pretending I didn't know what he
was doing; the crane guys were busy, and I was mildly bored, so I began to
walk around.

Anyone who was once a boy knows the satisfaction of having spare time to
walk around wherever he is, scuffing the dirt with his tennies, observing
the piles of debris, nails and other assorted trash that make up a
worksite/junkyard/abandoned lot.  There is a vague sense of not belonging,
or not being supposed to be there, or mischief.  But most of all, it's time
to be a boy in the raw sense: left to his own devices and thoughts,
innocent or sinful, wandering or concentrated, Realistic or outrageous.  I
don't remember what I was thinking as I wandered that site, being careful
to sidestep anything that could pierce or crush me, but I know I was
grateful to be there in that moment.

Turning my attention back to the workers, I was struck by their sense of
teamwork.  Nowadays, when you visit a site like that, more than likely
you're apt to find a bunch of people with cell phones and walkie-talkies
bitching at each other over why this hasn't been done yet and why that was
never discussed and why so-and-so didn't do the other thing...and that's
when you don't have a language barrier to overcome.  The purpose was to get
the job done, and work on solving the problems instead of spending the
whole day pointing fingers.  All the men just...just seemed to know where
their place was in the big picture, and each seemed accepting of that fact,
and satisfied.  It was a real-life, larger version of kids playing in a
sandbox, and I enjoyed watching the way things worked and wondering what,
one day, this building would look like.

I sometimes pose myself The Great If questions.  What if I hadn't had to
relieve myself that day?  What if I hadn't decided to go with Grampa?  What
if a million other things that led to my discovery in the portable toilet
that day, the discovery that shaped that summer and, most likely, quite a
few things in my adult life as well.  Lingering on the past, while
nostalgic, can lead to worry and thinking too hard about things that might
be better left alone.  So I leave them alone, but not without giving them
much thought.

Be that as it may, I was watching the foreman in the red hardhat directing
his crane operator from the ground when I was struck by the sudden urge to
pee.  That was nothing special in itself, since I'd had the juice with
breakfast and a cold bottle of Coca-Cola later on.  Grampa was still behind
the truck, leaning and smoking.  He knew I wasn't enough of a bother to
warrant babysitting, and I was thankful for that.

I walked along the edge of the concrete pad until I reached the corner,
looking for the Port-a-Potty I knew had to be somewhere on the jobsite.  It
was only a matter of deduction that with this many burly, hard-working men,
they would need a place of private respite without having to bother
neighboring businesses or the public.

I spied the faded yellow structure about fifty yards down, nestled between
a pile of twisted, discarded rebar and the ten-foot-high cinderblock wall
that shielded the site from the street beyond.  I made my way quickly,
sidestepping junk that looked hazardous, thankful I had worn my tennies
instead of sandals, the only other pair of footwear I had brought with me
in the truck.  Someone had started hammering somewhere, and I couldn't help
but fall into step with the sound, all the while imagining the relief I
would feel once I got into that structure.  Tiptoeing around some exposed
metal, I reached for the door and pulled.

To this day, besides The Great If questions, I sometimes wonder if I wasn't
destined to find what I found in that portable restroom.  I'm not sure if
God has a sense of humor, but if he does he sure has some odd ways of
showing it.  All that aside, I can tell you that it wasn't my fault.  I
looked at the door.  The round knob showed green, with a big white VACANCY
right in the middle.  So, when I pulled that door open and saw a very
grown-up man doing a very grown-up thing, the first thing I felt was
embarrassment.

He was rough and chubby, probably in his late thirties if not early
forties.  The light passing through the thin plastic of the structure lent
his tanned skin a slightly warmer, jaundiced color.  His hardhat, of the
white "just a worker" variety, sat next to him on the seat shelf.  "Harv"
was written in bold, black letters on the back, which was facing me.  In
the split second before Harv realized he had a visitor, I witnessed his
tense body, shining with sweat and effort, as he stroked a meaty paw along
what had to be the largest male organ I had ever seen.

Granted, at this time I had hardly seen any besides my own and my dad's,
and a couple of my friends with whom I took swimming lessons.  But these
were mere glances, with no extra connotations other than changing clothes.
But this member was large and looked to be hard, standing straight up the
man's chest, glistening and an angry shade of dark pink as it leaked clear
fluid onto Harv's fingers.

I stood stock still...I didn't have the presence of mind to do anything
else, so entranced was I at this unreal sight.  The light from behind me
cast a contrasty blue onto the inner yellow, bringing Harv's ruddy, round,
dirt-streaked face into stark relief.  He got two quick strokes in, and a
low grunt, before registering my presence, then he stopped, staring right
at me.  We both did nothing, I think, for a good five seconds.  Harv's eyes
quivered.  I became aware of my right leg bearing most of my weight in
preparation for my stepping into the Port-A-Potty, and evened out my
stance.  That was when Harv struck out his left arm and drug me in with
him.

There was little room for maneuvering inside that hot, oppressive little
structure; the door barely closed behind my small frame, which was just on
top of Harv's spread legs.  He wore a white undershirt underneath a fairly
ugly brown-and-yellow plaid flannel work shirt, which was unbuttoned all
the way down, parted by his cock.  Faded and dirty blue jeans and white
briefs were puddled at his feet, covering my shoes and socks because I was
so close.  The place smelled of male musk, shit and something else I can
only describe as the odor of the color blue.  If blue could have a smell,
this would be the closest thing to it.

Harv ran one paw over his face, the one that wasn't holding his dick.  That
other paw slid off and down his right thigh as the man leaned back,
sighing, against the wall.  Suddenly he stiffened and reached forward; I
flinched out of his way, but he went around my waist and locked the door
behind my back in case another wandering worker should happen to make the
same mistake I had.

I stood still this whole time, not knowing I was twiddling my fingers until
the silence between us became wholly unbearable.  Honest to God, I did not
know what to do.  Harv rested an arm on his substantial belly, which rose
and fell with his regulating breaths.  The beginnings of sweat droplets
prickled at the top of my forehead, threatening to spill down and into my
eyes.

"Didn't anyone ever tell ya to knock, kid?" asked Harv in a slight
Midwestern accent.  I saw his wide eyes studying mine, and realized I knew
what he was feeling.  The man was scared, at least a little.  No shame, no
anger, but fear, for sure.

Continuing to twiddle my thumbs, and wondering why Harv had made no move to
cover his groin, I shuffled on my feet.  "It was unlocked, sir.  The thing
was green; how was I s'posed to know you were in here?"

Harv let out another of his bear-sized sighs and ran a hand through his
thinning crewcut.  He knew he was just as much to blame as I was.  But
there really wasn't any way to turn back time and make me unsee what I had
already seen.

"I guess not," said the man, his other hand distractedly squeezing his
flagging erection.  "But a guy has to have his private time, you know?"
Apparently, Harv was not a modest man.  Men who have exposure to such
things throughout their whole lives, I've read, are less likely to cover up
for the sake of others than those who have been taught to "hide their
shame."  Speaking of shame, while I was listening to what Harv had to say,
I was paying more attention to his cock, which had rehardened most of the
way to its previous state of fullness.

"I guess," I replied.  "I'm sorry for in--interrupting."  I wanted to
specify what I had interrupted, but I was a boy of relatively little social
education at this point in my life, and (please, no groans at my naïveté) I
didn't know what Harv was doing.  I only knew that he looked to be enjoying
it, and that there was a point I was missing somewhere.  But Harv didn't
look like an angry and punishing adult, merely a frustrated and hot one.

Smiling a little (how he knew he could get away with this unabashed display
is still beyond me), Harv said, "It's okay, son.  No harm done.
Just...fuck.  I mean, how'm I gonna get you out of here without the other
guys seeing?  I could get in a shitload--um, a lot of trouble."

While I stared at Harv's stroking hand, I felt a resurging pressure on my
bladder that reminded me of my original reason for coming in here in the
first place.  The chubby man must have picked up on this, because he said,
"You prolly have to take a wicked piss, don'tcha?  Sorry, you go on ahead
while I try to figger a way to fix this situation."

"Okay, thanks, sir," I said very politely, for I was raised to respect my
elders, regardless of their state of dress or sexual excitement.  Having
Harv's penis out in the open made it kind of moot to hide my own, and I was
still too young to be ashamed of my size, so I opened up my jeans and
pulled them down in the front, having not yet mastered the art of taking
out my equipment through the fly.  Almost as soon as I was free the urine
began to flow into the side bowl.  The sound of it reverberated out from
between Harv's thighs as I relieved myself, groaning with my eyes shut.

"Feels good, dudn't it?" Harv drawled.  I'm pretty sure now that he was not
looking at me with predatory eyes, but merely trying to fill up the awkward
silences with small talk.  I nodded because it did, indeed, feel very good.
It only feels bad if you're infected or have prostate cancer.  I've been
both in my life, and believe me, it is not a pleasant feeling.

"Yeah, lots of things feel good," the man murmured, and somehow I knew he
was back to stroking himself, free from my innocent eyes.  I finished and
turned to face him, and sure enough, he stopped.  "What?  Aren't you gonna
put that thing away?"

"Well, yeah, sir, except..."  Except I had a million questions going
through my head, now that it was clear of the need to empty my bladder.
Though I had barged in on him at a very personal time, and we were
basically complete strangers, I felt that somehow, through exposing our
genitals to each other, we could more easily share that "guy talk" I had
heard about from time to time, from overhearing my schoolmates to
eavesdropping on my parents' conversations.  Not the birds and the bees,
necessarily, but merely a young boy's curiosity about the differences
between him and what he could very well grow up to be.

"Except what?"

"Except...you're so much bigger than me!  You're the biggest one I've ever
seen...well, the only one, at least..."

And Harv gave me this incredulous look, as if I'd just blasted a perception
of myself he'd already formed in his head.  He didn't think I was the kind
of kid to make such a comment?  Well, both our dicks were hanging out.
After that, everything else kind of pales in comparison.

Harv squeezed his length a couple of times, appreciatively, proud of the
ego boost I had just given him.  Truthfully, he may have been thicker than
average, by pornographic standards he was only seven inches or so fully
erect.  But, just like going back to a former elementary school forty years
later, everything seemed bigger back then.

"I'm not that big, kid.  What's your name?"

"William, sir.  But everyone calls me Bud."

"Okay, Bud.  Well, I'm flattered you think so.  But shouldn't you be on
your way?  I see you've got a hardhat on; won't yer grown-up buddy be
worried about you?"

"Naw," I said.  "Grampa's smoking while they unload his truck.  I can take
care of myself."  Hands on hips, I realized I was thrusting my tiny package
in Harv's direction, and pulled back, blushing.

Harv laughed, his gut rolling up and down, which made me giggle.  His cock
slapped up against the round flesh, trailing a slimy string with it.  The
man once again put a hand on himself.  He was eager to finish whatever he
had started, and I didn't realize he wanted me out for the sake of such.
But I couldn't let the questions in my head go.  I had this man, here,
mostly naked, with so many questions!  He was literally a captive audience;
even I knew he couldn't make much of a fuss without getting us both in
trouble.  Mostly him, though.

"So your grampa brought you on the truck with him?  That was nice."

"Yeah.  This is our first stop."

"How do you like it so far?"  Harv had come to realize that I didn't care
if he masturbated in front of me; his strokes had gotten a little faster,
and more purposeful.  I watched as the hood of his foreskin roll up over
the head and back down again, exposing the slick flesh.  It was
mesmerizing...inexplicably so.

"It's great!  I get to sleep in the truck, and Grampa drives all the time,
and I hope we get to go all over the country before my school starts up
again."  Harv laughed a little, and while I didn't know why back then, I
now realize he was finding it funny how a little kid could carry on such a
conversation with his bits hanging out for all the world (or him) to see.

"Good for you, little man.  I bet your parents are glad to have some time
alone, aren't they?"  Wow, this guy was totally in tune with me!

"They said I was laying around the house too much, and needed to get out
and do something por--productive with my time."  A bead of sweat dripped
off one eyebrow and landed beside my nostril; I wiped it away with a sniff.

"I bet they're enjoying their time together," Harv replied, and closed his
eyes.  I now know he was vicariously living my parents' struggle and libido
suppression, taking their predicament and fantasizing it to his own
enjoyment.  A heavy exhalation escaped his chest; his pumping fist was
covered in a new layer of spunk.  I had to ask the question that could be
avoided no more.

"Sir?"

"Yeah, Bud?"  Harv no longer cared whether I saw him finish or not.  He was
apparently satisfied that I was safe to keep his secret, just that.

"What are you doing with your thing?"  And Harv got this look on his face
like he was about to let out another of those full-throated guffaws, a kind
of half-smile that faded as he realized I wasn't bullshitting him.  He then
paused, staring straight ahead at the locked door, the hot sun beating a
sickly warm color onto his dirty wet skin.  I stood, playing with my
fingers while my pants strayed to just above my knees, threatening to
puddle at my feet any second.

The look on my face must have been so innocent and unknowing.  I admit,
looking at it now, that Harv probably felt conflicted, faced with a
decision that I had put into his lap, openly and freely.  Sometimes I
regret my own naïveté in my young years, and the fact that it was that same
naïveté that allowed me to put Harv in such a difficult position.  I
imagine that, as his face contorted into all manner of pensive expressions,
he was weighing the options he had at his disposal.  When he looked back at
me, one corner of his dirty face curved up in a friendly smirk, and I was
completely comfortable with him.  I maintain, even at this age, that one of
the best ways to get to know a man on a bonding level is to be naked in
front of him.  Whether you engage in activities of an intimate nature is up
to you, but it is by no means necessary.

"Do you want to help me finish what I started?" he asked me, the gnarled
paw of his hand squeezing the base of his manhood.  It was drooling some
sort of clear fluid quite profusely onto the floor.  I remember thinking
there was something wrong with him, or his thingy was sick.  Oh, Lord, I
really had no idea.  I nodded at him, and he motioned me over; I walked
stiffly, holding my pants up just enough so that they avoided the floor but
not so much as to cover my bits.  Now I was straddling the man's thick
right calf, the stiff fur there tickling against my bare thighs.  I
giggled.

"What's so funny?"

"Yer leg tickles me!"  Harv laughed a little, keeping his voice down.  It
never occurred to me how long he may have been in here before I showed up
so unexpectedly, or that he might be missed on the jobsite.

"Can't help that, Bud.  So, you wanna know what I was doing?"

"Yeah!" I said eagerly, anxious to learn something about what the grown-ups
did in private that no one had ever deigned to explain to me.

"I can do that, sure I can.  But I'm kinda nervous."  He leaned in close,
as much as he could while sitting on that plastic commode, as if we were
keeping a top-secret secret.

"Why?"

"'Cuz I ain't supposed to be showin' you stuff.  You ain't even supposed to
be in here.  So you can't go around talkin' about what we're doing.  This
is private big-boy stuff.  D'you think you can keep it all secret-like?"  I
couldn't really understand why it was such a big deal, not at that age, but
I was a kid and while some things were beyond my reach, keeping a secret
was not one of them.  I could lie my way out of anything, and keep a secret
until the end of time if it would keep me out of trouble.

"Sure I can, I do that all the time," I said.

"Good boy," said Harv with a pat to my shoulder.  "Now shuffle a little
closer so I can show you why I was pullin' my pud."  I didn't know what a
pud was, of course, but I obeyed him because he was the adult and he was
allowing me to do stuff that was of a "just between us" importance.

Harv reached behind me and pulled me closer still, until my knees were
against the shelf he was sitting upon.  He let his meaty hand linger on my
back, and as I stood still like a good boy I watched him look me over,
licking his lips.  Don't get me wrong; just because you have the
opportunity to touch a young boy doesn't automatically give you pedophilic
thoughts.  I happen to believe that Harv, under normal circumstances, would
let pretty much anyone touch him at this point.  It was the pure excitement
of the situation.  Plus, what middle-aged-or-older man hasn't had a
fleeting thought of what it would be like to teach a prepubescent boy the
facts of life and his own body?

I was aware that my own little member was becoming stiff like Harv's, much
smaller of course but no less impressive for my age and size.  This
surprised me, because this is something I was used to happening only when I
had to relieve my bladder or I was wearing swim trunks.  I guess boys know
when a hand is about to alight upon their genitals.

The touch of thick fingers was almost like being abducted by an ogre, or
some other wild beast of fantasy and mystery, being taken to their lair or
cave and subjected to exploration.  Harv's hand traced around my thigh,
following the line made by the junction of my stomach and hip.  It was
around there that I first felt the electric stirrings of stimulation, and
before I could fully process what it was, my little package was fully
encased in his massive palm.  Exhaling, raggedly, I looked down at myself
to see my cock being massaged by fingers that were, each, bigger than
itself.  Harv did a little bit of everything to me while his other hand
milked that organ of his, which issued forth a copious amount of that
snot-looking clear goo.  A little stroking, a little jacking, a finger
under my balls, a two-fingertip massage of my circumcised glans, and about
three minutes later I was beginning to sweat, head pointed to the ceiling,
my mouth hung open as I experienced for the first time in my life feelings
I had no idea could come from my body.

"That feel like something you'd like, Bud?" Harv asked as he kept
masturbating me.  I did little more than nod weakly.  The first time
experiencing sexual pleasure is almost an indescribable experience: there's
mental pleasure, such as happiness, and there's the comforting touch of a
mother or guardian, and then there's the waves of something, some feeling
you can't place or describe other than that it seems to radiate from
everywhere and nowhere all at once and it just feels...damn good.  Still,
more than fifty years later, when I am treated to the luxury of an
erection, it's as enigmatic a feeling as it ever was.

Harv cupped my groin and pressed in; I felt blood moving around from one
place to another and moaned a little.  "Now you know why I was doing it.
But you can only do it in private; it's not for out in th'open."  I knew
this somehow, as if a code of manly conduct didn't need to be spoken
between us for me to understand certain aspects of it.

I used my forearm to clear the film of sweat from my brow, wiping it on my
shirt.  Harv's was already soaked halfway down, and he seemed not to be as
bothered by it as I was.  Probably because he worked in these conditions
all the time.

"Did you know it can feel a whole lot better'n this?"

Staring at him with my mouth hung wide open, I replied, "No way!"  But he
kept on stroking, and I had noticed that with continued stimulation, the
feeling tended to intensify.

"Do you want me to show you?"

"Hell yeah!"  Harv's eyes widened a bit at my exclamation, and he laughed
softly.  He then took his palm away and gave it a good lick, and returned
it to my member.  I nearly collapsed from his newly-slickened touch; this
was multiples better than what he had been doing before!  I bent slightly
and put my hands on his greasy shoulders for support as he added more
saliva to his hand.  A slightly sickly, wet sound began to come from my
crotch, and I found myself thrusting slowly against him.  His grip was very
different from, and didn't hold a candle to, any of the women I've had over
my life, but it was the closest I'd yet come to intercourse.

It made me feel grown-up.  It made me feel animalistic.  And whatever it
was, it built faster than I wanted it to...but I no more wanted to stop it
than Harv wanted to stop jacking me.

"You ever came before?" he asked, quickening his pace.

I attempted to answer, my voice muffled by the skin of his shoulder as I
dug my head into his hot body.  "What's that?"

"It gets really strong, and you feel like you're gonna piss, but then it
peaks and just kinda...falls away."  I shook my head in the negative.
Hell, I'd never even done this...this thing to myself, let alone allowed an
old guy touch me like this!  Whatever Harv was describing, I wanted it.  It
just seemed a matter of course that there should be a fitting end to this
means, and that end should be some sort of incredible climax.  I was
shortly to learn it was just that.

"No sir, I...*huh*...I never had that before..."  I moaned again as Harv
used his index finger and thumb to caress my short shaft while the other
three fingers slid like fleshy feathers underneath my scrotum, which by now
was the size of a walnut.

"Yer gonna be a man for me, right, Bud?" asked Harv, in what I would later
discover was a seductive tone of voice.  "You gonna let it all go in my
hand, right?"  I nodded again and thrust harder against his hand.
Something was building, all right.  I felt my arms wrap around the folds of
Harv's thick neck; my legs bowed outward.  This bull of a man was holding
me like a son, one hand on my cock while the other stroked my back and
pushed against my duff encouragingly.

I don't recall how long those last few moments before my first climax were,
but they were spent in relative silence, save for my childlike grunts and
drooling breaths.  Harv punctuated these with his own script of
monosyllabic pep-talk, egging me on to "finish for me" and "give it up" and
"make an old man proud."  It was this last, this realization that Harv was
depending on me to give him what he wanted, to prove myself to him by
giving him the privilege of seeing me writhe around in ecstasy, that sent
me over the edge.

"Sir...sir, I...ungh..." was all I managed to get out before my penis went
crazy.  It did feel like I had to pee, but this was much more pleasurable
and imminent.  Of course, Harv knew exactly what I was about to do and
switched his fingers from the shaft to just the head, pumping quickly with
little friction.  My hips took on a life of their own and gyrated lewdly
until Harv's hand steadied me against the plastic shelf.  Bursts of color
painted the insides of my closed eyelids; I can't recall if I dug my nails
into his back.  But Harv worked through my dry orgasm, milking all the
pleasure he could from my smallish organ as it spasmed and jumped without
letting go a single drop of anything at all.

I stood, still and mute, for a while after my peak subsided, spending my
first afterglow in the beefy arms of a dirty, sweaty construction worker
who, I assume, felt hornier than ever and lucky to have found a boy with
whom to share such a milestone moment.  If I had been older and more
experienced, when I raised my head I might have expected a kiss.  But,
being so young, I expected nothing but what happened to me at that moment.

"Blow yer mind, kid?" Harv asked, and I nodded weakly.  My little spike was
sore but still hard, and I suddenly (interestingly) had lost all interest
in matters sexual.

"That was totally swell," I replied, pulling my shorts up.

Harv stopped me.  "Don't just yet.  I want to look, if that's okay with
you."

"Okay."

"Now," the man hesitated and took in a great breath, "You wanna help me
finish what I was working on?  I do the same thing as you, 'cept a little
different."

"How different?"

"You're just gonna have to help me and find out.  Right?"  Harv's smile was
still friendly, but even a nine-year-old could see he was too desperate for
reciprocation to let me go without helping him.

I smiled back.  "Okay.  I wanted to feel it anyway."  And I did want to.
Harv's penis, which had not flagged in the least during this whole
encounter, beckoned to me to experience the organ of a big guy, the
six-incher that seemed enormous that afternoon in a nondescript
Port-O-Potty in a nondescript construction site in a nondescript Midwestern
town.

"Well, go ahead, Bud.  Feel all you want."  Harv spread his chubby thighs
to expose his manhood a bit better for me, and a pleasant cloud of musk hit
my nose a moment later.  It's still a part about sex that I enjoy, though
my encounters are with women now, if they happen at all.  It reminds me
that, despite all the colognes and powders and body washes and douches,
we're still hormonally-driven beasts.

Harv was uncircumcised, and it piqued my curiosity the most out of all his
features.  His penis stood out at a stiff forty-five or fifty-degree angle
from the triangle of his groin, covered at the base in a dense thicket of
brown pubic hair.  I had no comprehension of why a man would have so much
hair on him, and why that hair would be concentrated around his thingy, of
all places.  It pulsed minutely between his legs, mirroring his heartbeat,
and I watched with fascination as each beat pulled up the skin of his
scrotum just a little bit, then let it down.  His balls, too, were huge to
me.  Since I had nothing bigger than a large nut down there, I wondered how
he kept the sac and its contents from swinging too much and hurting him.
And I knew how much it hurt, too.

Harv must have grown impatient with my ogling, because he took my hand and
quickly placed it on the middle of his shaft, where my short, relatively
stubby fingers gripped about three quarters of the way around it.

"Fuuuhhh--jeez, Bud, that feels real good," the man growled, leaning back
against the plastic wall and leaving the rest up to me.  I knew what he was
about to say, and I admired him for catching and correcting himself.  I
wouldn't have repeated it, though, but it was nice to see this
rough-and-tumble man had some scruples.  I shuffled a bit closer, pants
still at ankle-height, and got a better grip on Harv's foreskin.  Even at
full erection, most of the glans was covered.  It offered me the
opportunity to slide the whole of it up and down, the sight of which
absolutely fascinated me.

"You have lots of skin, sir," I admonished.  "How come I don't?"  I pulled
the skin down as far as it would go, and brought it back over.  The pungent
aroma of smegma (I had no idea what it was at the time) assaulted my nose,
but I didn't consider it off-putting.

"Something your parents do when yer born.  *Ungh* You come with it on, but
sometimes they cut it off.  Yeah, keep doing it like that.  God..."

I wrinkled my nose and wondered why my parents had decided to take a knife
to my privates when I was born.  I would have to ask them, or Grandpa,
later.  I could always say me and Jake Miles, my best friend, had been at
the pool and had a discussion.  I knew enough not to tell this kind of a
truth.  "Does it feel better with or without it?"

"I...dunno, kid, I think it's different for everybody.  Hey, couldja go a
little faster?"  Harv was watching my face and hand, alternately.  To a man
in his position, it must have been a pretty hot sight watching my young,
mostly nude body while I masturbated his substantial member.  His belly
rose and fell with regular breaths; the layer of fur there was beginning to
mat with sweat, the hairs curlicuing around his belly button.

"That's sooo cool," I muttered, and sped up like I was told to do.  My
other hand joined the first, gripping below it so I had most of the thing
within my grasp.  Harv was certainly hard enough to allow easy movement of
the skin; I wish I could achieve that level today, but age has taken that
ability away (except with the addition of a few certain pills).  Pressing
harder on an upstroke, I was rewarded with a large bead of that fluid
again, which oozed over the foreskin and over my fingers.  I smeared it
over the head, noting how slick it was, and unthinkingly brought my hand to
my mouth and tasted it.  To this day, I don't know if it was instinct or a
slip of mind, but I did it.  Didn't taste bad, really; it was mostly salty
and a little bitter.  But when I looked up at Harv, he looked absolutely
awestruck.  He must have not expected me to do that.  Now it looked like he
respected me more.  I liked the power it gave me.

"D'you like how I taste, Bud?"

"It's okay.  It's slimy!"  I said, wrinkling my nose as if Harv had just
asked a question about a girl I liked.

"If you stroke faster, just a little faster, more of that'll come out.  You
can use it to help your hands...mmm, just like that..."  He moaned when I
took his suggestion word for word, and sure enough, more clear fluid came
out.  This I used to lubricate his foreskin near the top, so my hands would
slide the sheath over his head and then I could pull it down and stroke the
exposed head with ease...I learned this was a particularly sensitive spot
for Harv, and I, in my precocious nature, decided to exploit this.

At this time, I saw the big man was feeling pretty good, because he was all
tense and his eyes were closed, moving jerkily to and fro.  Thinking on it
now, he was probably fantasizing about some thing or another, or maybe he
was just thinking about me.  I'll never know; I'm sure Harv's been gone a
number of years.

"Oh, boy, I'm gettin' close," he whispered.  "You want to tug on my ballsac
a little, Bud?  That'd feel awesome!"  I nodded, because he was watching me
again, and I made sure my left hand had a good grip on him when I took the
other to his scrotum, which was hanging a few inches into what would be the
bowl on a normal toilet.  For some reason, I expected, since my hand was
down there, to smell the mess that Harv and I had contributed to.  But we
were both desensitized, I supposed, and it mattered no more than background
noise.

"Aww, shit," I heard.  The man had apparently lost the ability to censor
his speech, and I didn't care because it wasn't as if I had never heard any
of those words before.  "You know, I have a son about your age...I'd have
it made if I could get him to do what you're doing."

"Well, you made me feel good, so I'm making you feel good too," I replied.
"Maybe if you ask him real nice, or play with his thingy, he will."  This
was my nine-year-old way of saying that I didn't understand what I was
doing was illegal (for Harv) and I assumed that any young boy would be
willing to perform sexual favors for men thirty years their senior if they
only knew how good it would feel.

"Wish it were that easy, Bud," said Harv.  "But it's worth a try, maybe.
Could I pretend you're my son, just for a minute?"

The significance of this escaped me.  To this day I'm sure Harv wasn't gay,
just a man with a severe case of hornballs.  For some people, once they're
excited enough, practically anything sexual will get them off.  Me
pretending to be this guy's son was his particular catalyst in this
particular moment, and for some reason I knew it would please Harv if I
played along.  So I did.

"Sure, Daddy, if you promise to make that stuff you said you would.  I
wanna see it shoot out!"

"Fuckin-A, I can't believe this!"  Harv was talking to the ceiling, his
head shaking.  I placed both hands on his cock again, making slow, complete
strokes over the full length.  His testicles were beginning to disappear.
"You're doin' real good, son, just don't stop for nothin'!  Nice and slow,
oh, fuck..."

And Harv finally began to thrust of his own accord, just like I had, just
enough to increase the length of strokes by half, just enough to add that
little bit of stimulation at the end that would definitely bring him over
his own edge.

"You wanna go to the fair?  You wanna ride the big wheel and shoot the
water cannons and all that fun shit?  We go every year, I know you want
to..."

"Please take me to the fair, Daddy!  I'll be real good!"  I really had no
idea what role-playing was, or that it even existed as a sexual fetish.
All I knew was that I was this man's son for the moment, and I wanted to
see him shoot like he said he would, so I played along.  It seemed to work
like a charm.  "I'll do anything to get to the fair."

"Pull my hood down, then," he said, "and lick on it."  He wanted me to lick
his thingy?  I knew I'd tasted his stuff, but I didn't know how his actual
penis would taste.  I looked at him, asking wordlessly for a little more
explanation.  "Go on, son, put your mouth on Daddy's cock."

"Okay.  But you have to let me ride the roller coaster a lot!"  I stopped
stroking, waiting for an answer.  Even at nine, I was an unwitting tease.

"Yeah!  Yeah, sure, whatever you say, just get that tongue movin'!"  So I
exposed his purplish, smooth head, stuck out my tongue and slathered over
the very tip, where lay the source of my "Daddy's" essence.  It really
tasted like nothing except a little salt and bitterness, just like the
clear fluid, so I took more of the head in my mouth.  After just a few
passes I was able to get two inches of his member between my lips, but no
more than that.  My hands still gripped his shaft at the base, but my mouth
controlled the top third.

I looked up at him, my mouth full of his cock, and he went crazy.  I had to
hold my head still while he mounted it like a deprived stud horse.  I was
like a human orifice, standing stock still while he literally fucked me.
The only sounds coming from his pursed, moist lips were a series of huffs
and, "Oh, oh, oh..."  On a whim, I went down while he went up, and I found
the back of my throat against his cockhead.

Harv stamped his foot, and struggled out the words: "Pull off, pull off,
I'm gonna come!"  I was a little slow on the uptake, but when he started
jerking around on the toilet I knew enough to back off.  My hands replaced
my tongue just in time to feel his release under the skin right before it
erupted out of him and into the air between us.

To my virgin eyes, it was truly a sight to behold: I kept my hands right
where they were, afraid to let him go but afraid to continue as well.  His
glans swelled to twice its size, pushing whatever skin remained down and
out of its way.  Under my fingers the organ twitched and vibrated, a hose
under great pressure at last able to allow a free flow.  I pointed it away
from me automatically, aiming the copious spray over his belly and towards
his face.

Harv put an arm to his mouth and smothered his noises, which were
substantial and loud.  Predatory grunts, wheezes, and a repeated, "Unh,
unh, unh"would have come out much louder, and attracted much more
attention, had he not effectively gagged himself.  The first shot, while
surprising in its appearance, was a short volley to Harv's navel.  The
second, however, had the full force of climax behind it and made it to the
man's double chin, splattering his stubble and dribbling down among the
scruff there.  The rest of them, in declining intensity, covered every area
in between from Harv's neck all the way back down to his genitals, finally
coming to an oozing trickle once again as the rest of his orgasm played
out.  As my attention eventually wavered away from Harv, I noticed my
little member was once again hard; I could have gone again, but I knew we
both were out of time.

As Harv's penis withered in my hands, I let it go and licked myself clean.
"Damn, kid, looks like you have a taste for cum.  You might grow up to be
one of them fags someday.  Better be careful."  I had no idea what he said
or meant, but he didn't look like he wanted to explain any further so I
didn't press him.

"I will, sir.  I dunno, it tastes okay.  Really strong."  This new stuff,
it was white, and thicker than the other stuff.  It had a stronger taste,
of course, as any of you reading this will attest to, but it wasn't
unpleasant to my unrefined palate.  I wouldn't want to feast on it, though.

"You're a good boy," said Harv, patting my head and tousling my hair a bit.
He was careful not to get it all sticky with his emission.  I'd have a hard
time explaining that to Grampa.

"Thank you, sir.  You're cool for showing me all this!  It's fun!"  And I
smiled and giggled, pleased with myself and the new things I'd learned in
the last--oh, twenty minutes or so.  Maybe less, I can't rightly recall.

"You bet it's fun, Bud.  It gets even more fun when you do it with somebody
else, like me or my buds."  I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.
However, I did make a mental note to take advantage of my privacy in the
truck and try that stroking trick out on myself.

Harv used a fair amount of toilet paper to blot the semen from his face and
undershirt, and I, having already dressed, played with his flaccid member
while he stood and collected himself.  I only came to his navel, so it was
within perfect reach.  He tousled my hair again and called me a horny
little bastard.  I didn't know those words, but I pretended I did.

I opened the door first and looked carefully for anyone around.  Miracle of
miracles, no one was standing in line and no one was even on our side of
the building.  Convenient for this story, yes, but I think it was pure
luck.  I jumped out onto the dirt, sending up a fine cloud of it; the air
was freshly cooling against my damp skin.  Harv followed suit, heaving a
great sigh and adjusting his equipment, tucked safely away in his
underwear.

"Helluva lot cooler out here, idn't it?" he asked, his hand on my back.

"Yeah, a lot cooler," I agreed, and let Harv led me around the building
until I could see Grampa's truck and the crane, which was lifting the last
pick over the wall.  We'd be leaving within ten minutes.  That was quick!

"That your Granddad?" asked Harv.

"Yeah."

"Go on," he shoved me forward, and I ran the rest of the way, careful not
to step on anything particularly lethal, until I fell into Grampa's waiting
arms.

"Well, where'd you go off to, ya little scamp?"  Grampa lifted me up by the
armpits and set me on the catwalk between the tractor and flatbed.  I could
see Harv walking up with his mound of a belly, and the foreman with the red
hardhat directing the crane operator nearby.

"I had to go to the bathroom!" I stated, and pointed at Harv.  "He helped
me find it.  And then we were talking, and...and...well, we--"

"Boy had a lot of questions about construction, for a kid his age," Harv
chimed in where I left off.  I wasn't about to blab, and I think Harv knew
it, but we both knew he wasn't hurting anything.  "I tried to answer as
honestly as I could."

"'Preciate that...Harv," Grampa studied the big man's shirt.  "Faster we
get him educated, less trouble he'll be.  Right, you little troublemaker?"

"Right!" I chirped, just as eager as you please.  I didn't feel guilty
about keeping my secret from him then, and I've never felt guilty since.
I'm sure old Grampa knows now that he's up in the clouds, but I don't think
he can blame me.

The foreman walked up to us, turned around and gave a signal to the crane
operator, who began to shut down his machine.  The flatbed was empty.
"You're all signed and ready to go, pal.  Thanks for gettin' here on time;
you have no idea how many ass--how many ne'er-do-wells can't keep to a
schedule."  He and Grampa shook hands, and then he shook my hand, to which
I felt honored.  Turning to Harv, he said, "I figure if you get your guys
together with the nail guns, we can fasten this framework together in about
three hours.  Whaddya say, Harv?"

Harv said, "Don't see a problem at all.  I'm all refreshed and rarin' to
go, thanks to Bud here."  While Grampa and the foreman looked quizzically
at Harv, I tried to mask my downright terror at what he'd just done.  "Just
havin' a conversation with a kid like him's enough to make me feel like I'm
thirty again."  I sighed in relief; Grampa and the foreman just nodded and
smiled.  I felt deliciously dirty, like Dick Tracy or something.

"Shall we head out and get some lunch, Bud?" asked Grampa.

"Sure!  I'm starving!' I said, just now realizing I was hungry.  Sex works
up a powerful appetite.

"Hop in the cab and settle down; I'll be up shortly.  Go on now."  I hopped
up on my side and made my way into the cab, back into the sleeper.  I made
the bed and secured whatever loose items were lying about, then buckled
myself into the passenger seat.  I watched the three older men conversing
and joking outside on the ground, secretly wishing I could hear them.  Harv
would look up at me every once in a while and wink.  I winked back.

Finally, Grampa joined me in the cab and started up the truck.  Pushing in
both brake knobs, he asked me, "So, did you have fun at your first drop?"

 Looking at him as if he was out of his mind for asking such a superfluous
question, I remarked, "Boy, did I!  This is going to be the best summer
ever!"  Who knew what the remaining months would hold, if this was just the
beginning?  Little did I know, Harv had started me on a journey that would
shape the rest of my summer, and make countless older men glad to go to
work every day.

But that, I shall save for another time.


			      FIN 6/9-9/9/07


Thanks so much for reading!  This was my first attempt at writing fiction
specifically for this audience, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.
Tell me what you thought, and if you want to see further encounters between
Bud and friends he makes along the way.  Also, if you have any real-life
experiences such as this, feel free to share...I take inspiration from
anywhere!  Flames will be ignored, of course.

nifty_ntib@yahoo.com