First of May
Copyrightę 2012 -- Nicholas Hall
The warm, humid, early June night seemed to contain and focus the flashing lights, the raucous sounds of canned music, and enticing chants of the hucksters in the rows of joints along the carnival midway into one grand collage of mental, visual, and audio stimulation, rocketing my memories into a comfort zone that was both exciting, yet calming. Rides, twirling and whirling, were filled with young and old voicing their pleasures or fears with shouts and screams. The Ferris wheel made its majestic, slow moving sweeping rounds with seats teetering back and forth seeming to barely contain the seated, secured occupants while the nearby carousel, accompanied by hurdy-gurdy music, revolved around and around with almost erotic up and down motions of the gaily painted wooden horses carrying excited, happy riders. Ever since I can remember, I loved the carnival midway, the attractions, excitement, and mystery. I often dreamt of becoming a "carnie" but my parents made other plans, namely, I was forbidden to run away and join one, so I obeyed my parents and lived not to regret it, so far.
I began my slow, leisure saunter down the right side of the midway, pausing every now and then to scope out a particular game of chance, or "skill," as most were known, smiling as each booth or joint inhabitant would call out to me, trying to entice me or someone else to step up and win big ...yah, that was going to happen soon! You had to have money to spend and I had little to spare.
The Great Recession and accompanying bank collapses took its toll on many households, my own family included. My father was laid off, but had hopes of returning to work in the fall, and my mother was a housewife, thus, no other income for the household. They assured me, with the big garden they always planted, fish from the river, and Dad's unemployment check they'd make it. There just wouldn't be any extra for non-essential items or for helping me with college in the fall. My parents weren't well-to-do, in fact, earned barely enough to be classified as "lower middle-class." Daddy was a pretty decent auto mechanic and quite the handyman, so he was able to do some cash work around town. Our little city of 12,000 or so wasn't so large that he was unknown. Quite the contrary, Mom and Dad were well respected, poor, but well-respected. As an only child, arriving quite late in their lives, I may've not been blessed with material things, but they never held back their love and support for me.
After finishing my junior year at the university, I was looking forward to my senior and final year, graduating with a degree in science. Funding for my college education came from summer employment, part-time jobs during the school year, savings, and a small inheritance from my mother's parents. Even with working, my grades were better than average, damned good if I don't say so myself, since I was carrying a 3.6 grade point average. The inheritance was long spent, my savings almost depleted, and the factory where I'd worked in previous summers laid people off and didn't have any work for summer college students.
After discussing with Mom and Dad the lack of employment opportunities for me locally, I decided to load up my camping gear, clothes, and other items in my older, but well maintained (by Daddy, of course) pickup truck and hit the road in search of work. By the second week of June, I had enough short-term jobs to pay for gas, camping fees, food, and a little extra to put into the sock, but nothing permanent for funding my senior year.
My search for employment in this part of the state was proving to be quite unsuccessful so, after tonight, I'd move on to a more populous, less rural area in hopes of locating something. At five foot six inches tall and a buck thirty on a good day, it was difficult to convince farmers and others, during an interview, I was physically capable of doing a hard day's work. I'd leave after I spent a pleasant evening wandering the midway, intending to spend little or none of my precious reserve cash. Midways are free, it's the games of chance, food concessions, and rides that take the money and I had no intention of parting with any of my meager reserves.
The sights and sounds surrounding me brought back pleasant memories of my childhood along the Great River when carnivals and circuses came to town and set up in Levee Park. Momma, Daddy, and I would spend the evening wandering the Midway, bathing in the ambiance of the sights, sounds, and smells of the festive event. If there was a little extra cash, we'd share a bag of caramel corn and maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to ride one of the rides. Did I feel deprived or angry because we had and did so little? No, I thought we were so fortunate to be able to go and enjoy what we did. God, I did so love the midway!
About half way down the midway my reverie was interrupted by the sight and sounds of a vaguely familiar huckster ballying the passing crowd, trying to lure someone into trying his or her luck at the ball game he was operating. It was one of those games where you threw a baseball at a stuffed animal, hoping to knock it and two successive others completely off of the shelf in order to win a stuffed teddy bear. The game was in a wheeled trailer with a side that opened up presenting the game to players and acting as a shelter for them. When closed, the side secured it from the elements, would be thieves, and vandals.
The young man manning the booth was about my age, perhaps a year or two older, a couple of inches taller, but about my weight. His olive-brown complexion, accentuated by his sparkling dark eyes, black hair, and a flashy, beguiling smile decorating his very attractive face, immediately won over the ladies in the crowd. His innocent appearance, capable of convincing people they really just might win or bamboozle the young chap, was deceiving since his victims were in for a rude awakening, of that I was certain. I watched young men with sweethearts at their sides, beguiled by him, step forward to pay their fee, take a chance, and most often, not win. There were occasional winners, however, just enough to keep the crowd interested and spending. He was making it fun for them to lose! I couldn't help but smile at his successes and his extremely good looks. I'd seen him before; he wasn't easy to forget.
The hour grew late, the crowd was thinning, and I, entranced watching him, lost all track of time. Turning to leave, I felt a hand on my shoulder and a soft, engaging voice asked, "Don't I know you?"
I looked back at those sparkling dark eyes and killer smile, replying, "I thought the same thing and vaguely remembered. Your name is Andrew or Andy and we had `Beginning Swimming' together at the University a couple of years ago."
I remembered him alright! Well built, always wore boxer swim trunks, held up by who knows what since he had a waist about like mine, but a nicely formed front pouch and butt. He'd enter the pool area, walk with a certain grace and sureness, comfortable in his own skin, and exude confidence, ready to conquer the world, or me, if I succumbed to him! Standing next to him now, I noticed he was an inch or two taller, but definitely my size otherwise. Smiling, he replied, "Andre Giovanni Bertagnoli and you are?"
Somewhat embarrassed, I began to sputter my name, but he interrupted, "Sean -- O'Brian, right, the good looking lad in the bright, blue Speedo swim suit?"
I gallantly acknowledged, "Sean Patrick O'Brian, my fine handsome sir," and gave a bit of bow, causing Andre to laugh aloud.
"Step over to my lair, said the spider to the fly," continued Andre, "so we may visit while I service my customers," securing me by an arm and leading me toward his booth. "Hopefully, I can lead you astray or shake loose a few of your coins at my game of chance while we visit, but please call me Andy."
"Alas, Mr. Spider, I've too few coins to lose, although I'd enjoy the visit, if you don't mind."
With that, he led the way inside, ensconced me on a stool, while he stood tossing a baseball up and down, eyeing the dwindling crowd, trying to entice someone to step forward and try their luck. He stopped for a minute, took a sip of water, turned to me inquiring, "So, Sean, what are you doing here? Do you live nearby?"
"No, I'm actually camping in the county park, hoping to find some work, but I've had no luck. I was planning on moving out in the morning and trying some other area, preferably where there are more town folks and fewer farm boys who won't notice my size."
Sean scratched his head as if thinking something over, scrunched up his eyebrows, thought a minute more, and said, "Hey, I'm going to shut down. The crowd's thin so let's go to my place and continue our conversation there."
I waited patiently while he gathered up his cash box, stowed things away, and locked up the joint. We meandered our way through the midway, noting it was powering down, lights were being extinguished, and joints closing. It was a little after midnight and day was done at the carnival.
Arriving at the area where the joint operators located their trailers and motor homes, Andy led me to a rather nice motor home, unlocked the door, and bid me to enter, with a "Welcome to my humble abode." As far as I was concerned, it wasn't all that "humble", in fact, compared to my tent, it was spacious, grand, opulent, and surprisingly neat and clean. It wasn't at all what I expected to find on a carnival lot and especially one owned by someone about my age. All I could say was, "Yours, obviously, or you wouldn't have ushered me over here?"
Andy just grinned, nodding in the affirmative, and invited me to take a seat on the couch. Retrieving two long-necks from the refrigerator, he twisted the tops off, handed one to me, and joined me. Leaning back, slipping one leg under the other, sitting half-crossed-legged facing me, he looked at me and said, "O.K. Tell me your story."
Boy, and tell him, I did. I chattered on about Daddy being laid off, the factory not hiring any summer help, my own unsuccessful search for steady employment, the rejections by employers because of my slight build, and my fears of not finding enough money for the next year's college tuition and fees. Andy just nodded, smiled or frowned when appropriate, while I melted into the comfort of those beautiful, black eyes of his. His very presence relaxed me and made me feel safe. I really wanted him to know me and like me, but I did withhold one tiny bit of information about myself -- I was gay, a virgin gay, but gay. It was something I wasn't ready to share with him, not that I was ashamed of being what I was, my folks knew and could've cared less as long as I was happy, but Andy was different. I didn't know how he might take it and I really didn't want him hating me for my sexual preferences. Call it fear, if you wish, or insecurity; it wasn't physical harm I was worried about, but Andy rejecting me emotionally and that was something I couldn't stand from him.
I'd not had many friends over the years, in fact, no close friends, always preferring to be a loner, trying not to stand out in the crowd, fearful because of my small size, wary that some big hulk of a redneck bigot would beat the living shit out of me. No, it was better and safer to stay in the closet and continue my fantasies through self-gratification. I could remember only too well what happened to one gay boy in our school on a summer weekend when a bunch of bullies caught him alone in a park and fucked him senseless. His suicide was reported as an "accidental" death. I don't need that experience in my life, thank you very much.
Finally running out of my life story, I sputtered to a halt, looked at Andy, smiled and said, "O.K. I've told you all about me, now tell me all I need to know about Andre Giovanni Bertagnoli."
Andy flashed that killer smile of his in response as he picked up my empty beer bottle, picked out two more from the fridge, handed one to me, and began, "Well, my father was Italian-American, my mother is French Creole from Louisiana, and this is the life I've led from the time I can remember. Mom and Dad settled in Iowa City after I was born because they thought the educational opportunities for me would be better and they were right. Iowa City was centrally located, allowing them to play the fairs, festivals, and other events they had for a number of years, so it was a logical choice. I was finishing my bachelor's degree when Dad died. Mom tired of the vagabond life, returned to Louisiana where her family's located, and I took over the family business. I'm now working on my Ph.D. in Economics, hoping to teach at the college level someday, but that's in the future. Right now, I'm really looking to hire some summer help to travel with me until classes start in the fall. Ordinarily, one of my cousins comes up from down south to work for me, but none could make it this year, for one reason or the other. Are you interested, because I'm really interested in you?"
Was I interested? Does a bear shit in the woods? Do fat frogs fart? Am I thinking with my dick instead of my brain? Yes, on all counts, but before I could reply, Andy continued,
"I usually have two joints operating; the ball game or the bear joint you saw tonight, and a flat joint or coin-toss. It used to be a nickel pitch, but now we use quarters because of increased costs and profits. A flat joint gets its name from the flat board that's in the middle. The player tosses a quarter and if the coin lands exactly on the right square, the player wins the quarter times the amount inscribed on the square. Quarters or `kuters' as they are called, are tossed on a chart with a series of numbers painted on the flat board in the middle of the joint. The quarter must land exactly in a black numbered square, not overlapping or touching the line. If it does, then we pay the quarter times the number. Highest payment is one hundred times or twenty-five dollars. If the quarter lands on a red numbered square or anywhere else, we win. I supply room, board, travel, equipment, supplies, and pay a daily salary plus commission. I only work Sunday school shows, nothing with crooked games or dirty burly shows. Kids and families come to the carnival and I don't think they need to be exposed or experiencing some of that crap. They see enough titty and pussy on television and in the movies. Yeah, I know, the games are designed so we win more often than we lose, but we don't need to cheat to do it. If a mark raises hell about his loses, I give him his money back or the prize he thinks he won, but then caution him never to return to my games again. They know the chances they take when they play. If you think someone is too young, ask for identification, that's usually enough to send them on their way."
"Everything we take in above expenses, which includes your salary, we divide 60/40. I don't pay travel days or down days, but any day we're set up, I pay. The commission I pay makes up for the off days. It's hard work, damned hard work, but the pay is good. I'd expect you to be able to exceed at least twice what you'd make in a factory job. You're good looking, got a hell of a smile, trim and lean so people will gravitate to you. What do you say?"
Here, handed to me on a silver platter, appeared to be the answer to my financial dilemma -- where and how to obtain funds for another year at the university. I had no reason to doubt Andy and I really didn't want to. I quickly agreed, but before I could say any more, Andy announced, "Let's drink another beer to our partnership. You've solved my problem and I've solved yours."
Standing up, he gathered more beer from the refrigerator, handed another into my-not-refusing hand, tapped them together and said, "To us." I agreed and looked at my watch. Astonished that it was two in the morning, I was about to apologize and take my leave, beer in hand of course, but Andy held up his empty hand stating, "Panic not, dear sweet lad, you'll spend the night here and we'll retrieve your tent and other gear in the morning, after a hearty breakfast of course. You'll take one of the bunk beds in the hall on the way to the bathroom and my bedroom. Not to fear- they are comfortable, roomy, have plenty of storage for clothing, and will give you the privacy you need, having accommodated my cousins quite well over the years."
Announcing that, he belched rather loudly, finished his beer, bade me to do the same, and placing an arm around my waist, ushered me to my nights lodging. The lower bunk was already made up with sheets, pillows, and blankets, so that's where I collapsed for the rest of the night, sleeping quite contentedly in the knowledge of my good fortune.
The next morning, in my haste to take a leak and relieve my morning wood, I scrambled out of my bed, started down the short hall leading to the bathroom, and ran into, literally full body contact, Andy sporting his own hard cock, sticking out like a knight's lance, bent on the same mission.
"Excuse me," I stammered, stepping aside to let him go first while I tried to cover the tent in my boxers.
"No apology necessary, step inside and I'll join you. Nothing like a morning piss together to seal a deal," he said sleepily.
Embarrassment aside, I shrugged thinking, `What the hell, we'll be living in the same motor home all summer,' so I stepped inside the bathroom, unleashed my own half-hard cock from my shorts while keeping my eyes to myself, when Andy reached around behind me, pulled back on the waist of my boxers, exposing my ass, slid his hand down over my cleft, lingering just a moment, and remarked, "Same size shorts and brand as mine. Looks like we're also equipped the same, except you're cut and I'm not."
My eyes snapped down toward his crotch, viewing his brown, flesh-covered penis, twitching a bit, the helmeted head sneaking out into the light of day from its resting place within the foreskin. Andy slowly slid the fleshy hood back farther, exposing the lighter, almost pinkish crown. He was almost the same size as I, but a darker color, and uncircumcised --not too small, not too big, just right said Goldilocks. The tension broke as we both laughed and turned the water in the toilet bowl yellow.
When breakfast was finished and the dishes cleaned, we left in my truck for the campground to gather up my gear. Andy assured me that in two weeks he had to return to Iowa City to resupply and check on a few things so I could leave my truck and gear at his place for the rest of the summer.
Andre began my training on joint operation and carnie life with a very simple and unadorned, blatant fact, "Seventy-five percent of every dollar spent at our joints goes into our pockets. Our goal is to convince the mark, the customer, to spend as much of his or her money that we can talk out of them. Pure and simple, that's it in a nutshell. The games are designed so we win much more than we lose. The average Joe walking down the midway knows he's going to lose, but per chance, just perhaps, he might win and that's his challenge -- beat us at our own game."
"The bigger job for us, knowing the mark is going to lose and we're going to win, is to convince him or her they're having a hell of a good time doing either. Therefore, we have to encourage them, laugh with them, suffer defeat with them, continue our chatter, and thank them for playing, especially if they lose. If they lose a bundle, then we sweeten the pot by giving them a prize or cash to encourage them to come back again and they will. I have some small bears I give away, especially if there are youngsters present. Feed the little pigs and the old sow will follow I was once told. In the case of the flat game, pitching away ten bucks won't break us."
"We'll always be casually dressed; looking clean, tidy, and as innocent as a choir boy at Easter, in order to gain their trust. After all, a choir boy wouldn't try to con them out of their jocks, would he? Like hell, he wouldn't! Always smile, be friendly, but be contagious, always luring them back for more. A word of caution, never let the mark touch you unless passing money back and forth and always watch your back, especially at closing. There are those, men and women, who see our good looks and innocence as something they want. As a result, they'll attempt to lure you aside, fuck your brains out, or steal your stash. If you ever have a mark you don't feel right about, one that makes you feel uncomfortable, you know- dirty, makes your skin crawl -- give me a nod and someone will ease him out, one way or the other."
Shit, yes, I had questions, a million of them at least, but the only one I really asked was, "When do I start?"
During the next two weeks Andy had me practicing, during the morning hours, tossing coins at the prize board in the flat game, throwing soft balls at the stuffed targets in the ball game, and rattling a spiel to lure marks to the joint. As he explained, knowing the game is selling the game, and when selling the game, conserve your voice, or as he put it, "so you don't blow your pipes." The only pipe I ever thought about blowing around him had nothing to do with the vocal cords. Afternoon and evenings, I sat quietly with him in the bear pitch joint, until toward the end of the two weeks, I began doing some of the pitching or bally.
When Andy worked the crowd, he was pure poetry in motion; so smooth he could con the National Basketball Association out of all of their jock straps in one afternoon. In the two weeks we'd been together, an easy familiarity developed between us; a familiarity which I feared, but still relished, if that makes any sense. Not only was he a smooth talker, he was smooth all over. Like me, he had little body hair, except for a bit under his armpits and nestled at the base of his jizzy stick; a not unfamiliar sight for me every morning at coffee. Nothing like the sight of a hunk of meat and two veggies first thing in the morning for a bit of a wakeup.
I was the first to rise in the morning, so I began making our coffee on a regular basis. Once the warm, enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee began permeating the motor home, Andy would emerge from his bedroom, naked as the day he was born, sleepily staggering toward the source of his morning wakeup, with about six inches of "Mr. Winkie," wagging stiffly back and forth as he walked, leading the way. Before sitting down to his first cup of brew (which I always poured and had waiting for him -- cream added, thank you very much), he'd invariably stop, scratch his balls, and skin back the foreskin on his cock a couple of times before sitting down. The first several times he did this I could do nothing but stare, shifting my hands to cover the growing big top in my own boxer shorts. His nakedness and hard shaft sticking up in front of me, caused him no embarrassment, but had a totally different effect on me. I had visions of bending over, backing up and spearing myself on his trouser trout or sprawl him across the table, face down, and bury myself balls deep in between those olive tan globes of his butt, pleasuring myself in his tight, little pucker, by laying some serious pipe. But I didn't, instead I'd refill my cup and join him at the table, the table top hiding my tumescence. Andy never commented on it and I didn't make any remarks on his nakedness, preferring instead to enjoy the morning's view.
Our stop in Iowa City was a brief one. Andy's apartment was one of three, occupying one half of a two story older home on the outskirts of the city. The living room, dining room, kitchen and a bath were on the first floor while on the second floor, two bedrooms shared a bathroom, and a smaller room was converted to an office. Andy explained, "This is the house I grew up in. When Mom and Dad moved here permanently, they bought this big house and the adjoining land, converted it to the three apartments, and used the rent money from the other two to make the payment. When Mom moved back to Louisiana, I bought the house from her and live here when I'm not traveling."
We put my gear in the second bedroom and parked my truck in one of the bays of the big storage building and garage in the back of the house. The storage building was large enough for the motor home, the joint trailer, a secured storage area for supplies, and Andy's pickup truck. The other two apartments shared a separate garage with separate, lockable bays and storage areas.
While we were reloading the trailer, another pickup truck drove into the yard, parked, and a man, not too different in complexion and stature from Andy, climbed out, and started walking toward us. Andy smiled and waved while saying, "That's my cousin, Todd. He manages Mom's and my properties for us."
After I introduced myself, Andy and Todd started discussing the properties. I wisely and discreetly stepped away and finished securing things in the joint trailer. Once done, I climbed back in the motor home to await Andy's return after visiting with his cousin. Fifteen minutes later, with a handshake and a wave to Todd, Andy climbed into the motor home driver's seat and we were on our way once again, heading east to Illinois where we'd meet up with the carnival he worked with most of the time. His family worked it almost exclusively when his Mom and Dad ran the business. Open dates were filled in with town or city festivals or other carnivals he was familiar with. We'd be working street festivals, county fairs, expositions, and small town shows in Iowa, Illinois, and Wisconsin. Our summer would end at the Iowa State Fair in Des Moines in mid-August, about two weeks before the start of fall classes. I was ecstatic, not only over the adventure which awaited me, but working with one of the most handsome men I'd ever met.
Our first run, a small town in Illinois, Andy ran the bear joint and I managed the flat joint. We did quite well while we were there. After the second day, Andy looked at me, smiled that killer smile of his, gave me a "thumbs up", and said, "You'll do just fine -- for a First of May." Noticing my puzzled look, he explained, "A First of May is a first time carnie and you're it. We've a great summer ahead of us, you and me."
The days moved all too swiftly into weeks as we traveled the circuit. We operated both joints, unless the show owner didn't want a flat joint or if the cost of the joint setup was too high, then we ran the bear (ball game) joint. We both were very comfortable with our working and personal relationship. We opened at one o'clock in the afternoon or thereabouts, worked until midnight or so, closed, went back to the motor home where Andy did the bookwork and prepared the cash deposits while I fixed us a bite to eat. Mornings, I fixed our breakfasts while Andy packed a light lunch or salad for us to have around supper time. If we operated just one joint and the crowd was light, I'd return to the motor home, fix us a hot meal, pack it in insulated carriers, and we'd have supper together. On off days, Andy did the cooking, pleasing me since I thought he was a fantastic cook, but he claimed he preferred my talents to his own. We shared housekeeping duties and laundry chores. We both were the same size except for pants length since Andy was a couple of inches taller than me, but otherwise, twenty-eight inch waists, small shirt size, and same boxer short brands and sizes. Inevitably, clothes were intermingled and we each wore what was available.
Weather was good for business most of the summer. The rain and storms that did occur happened on our off days so they didn't affect our profits or operation, until one day toward the end of July in Southwest Iowa. It was one of those hot, muggy, July days when it was difficult to breathe, the humidity was so high sweat cascaded down the crack of your ass when you exerted even the slightest of effort. The weather forecasters were predicting storms and the National Weather Service out of Omaha issued a severe weather watch, then a tornado watch for the county we were in and the surrounding counties. It was the last day for this particular county fair and the crowds were really thin. The weather forecasts did nothing to bolster the attendance, instead, served in keeping people away. The livestock auctions were over, the animal barns were empty, and the craft building was emptying fast. This fair was definitely winding down.
The morning weather report made me feel uncomfortable and I could sense Andy was more than just a little concerned. We'd become so close, so in tune with each other, I could feel how he felt without asking, and he didn't feel good. As we drank our morning coffee and finished our breakfast, Andy looked up at me, started to say, "Sean let's ...," and before he could finish his sentence, I interrupted with "take down the flat joint, just in case."
Nodding in agreement, he continued, "It won't make any money today anyway since the crowds are so thin. I'd rather have it tucked away if bad weather does hit. The ball game can be buttoned up in a couple of minutes by dropping the front panel and securing the sides."
We tore down the flat joint and stowed everything away in the trailer. There was still time before the midway opened so I walked back home and rolled up the awning that projected out on the entrance side. I returned and joined Andy in the bear/ball game for the rest of the afternoon. Other joint operators were keeping an eye on the sky also and slowly, carefully putting things away. About four o'clock in the afternoon, I looked off to the west, seeing a darker growing sky with clouds colliding angrily with each other, portending little good. Tapping Andy on the shoulder, pointing toward the clouds, I shook my head and said to him, "I don't feel good about this. I'm going back to the motor home and retract the slide outs. I don't want a strong wind blowing the hell out of them."
Once back home, I quickly set about putting things away that could blow about, moved items inside that might interfere when the slide out extensions began retracting, and then activated the switches that brought the slide outs in. Once finished, I stepped outside intending to go help Andy when I heard warning sirens sounding off in the distance. I looked off to the west and fixed my eyes on the twisting, jumbled, swirling debris laden mess of clouds snaking toward the fair grounds. I immediately became concerned for Andy's welfare and turned to run to aid him, but was surprised when I saw him running toward me. Clasping my hand, he pulled me with him as he ran by the motor home shouting, "There's a shallow ditch about fifty yards ahead. Kick your ass in gear and run."
Reaching the ditch, Andy tossed me face down to the ground, collapsed himself on top of me, covered me with his body, shielded my head with his arms, and tucked his face into my neck, as the terrible wind descended on us. The noise was deafening, but I could hear and feel Andy saying into my ear, "Lay still, hold on tight."
What seemed like hours, but really was only a couple of minutes, the storm passed and Andy relaxed his hold on me, although he didn't immediately release me from his embrace. The absence of noise was noticeable. Everything was eerily quiet, except off in the distance we could hear more sirens, not the tornado warning sirens, but police cars and emergency vehicles. Scrambling to our feet, we looked quickly around to survey any damage we might've suffered. Although the winds had been very strong, the actual tornado veered a little to the north, missing us by about a block, but leaving a path of destruction in its path.
The carnival wasn't without damage, however. The Ferris wheel, carousel, and many of the joints were collapsed, lying in tangled heaps where the wind pushed them over. The ball game suffered minor damage, not enough to disable it or put us out of business, although the strong wind did move it about five feet from where it was originally. The motor home suffered a broken windshield on the passenger side, a number of scratches and small dents from flying debris, but otherwise appeared to be undamaged.
Andy put his arms around me, leaned forward, touching his rain soaked forehead to mine and sighed, "Well, we made it through that one. That was one hell of a blow down."
People were scurrying about, assisting the injured, trying to get them to sheltered areas out of the rain, and where they could receive some first aid for their injuries. Those of us in the back lot fared much better that the rest of the fair grounds. One of the joint operators whose wife was a nurse, quickly made his motor home available as a first aid station. The electricity was out, due to down power lines, carnival generators weren't able to operate because of broken power lines to the various pieces of equipment, so generators in the motor homes were started in the gathering dusk to provide power for hastily rigged lights. The rain stopped as suddenly as it began, the clouds waned, and twilight was upon us.
This fleeting daylight allowed me to see beyond the carnival itself, revealing that the fairground buildings had suffered considerable damage. This definitely was the last day for this county fair. We worked most of the night helping others and finally, around three in the morning we made it back to the motor home and collapsed, exhausted not only from the physical efforts we'd expended but from the emotional trauma we experienced.
The next morning, Andy powered up the generator so I could fix our breakfasts and then asked, "What do you think about us moving on, get the motor home repaired, and get ready for our next play date? Without utilities, we can go about a week on our water reserves if we're careful, but I'd just as soon find some place to hole up and recover. I'll check with the boss man and see if he needs us, if not, let's go."
We were ready to roll in about two hours. There was little more we could do. Fortunately, the warning sirens sounded early enough so serious injuries were few and no fatalities, but the destruction was extensive at the fairgrounds and at the edge of the city. A quick call by Andy to his insurance agent, once we were in an area we could get cell phone reception, started us toward Des Moines where a motor home dealer would take care of us, making the necessary repairs. Three days later we were on our way toward North Central Iowa and our last play date before the State Fair. After a very successful run at that county fair, we found ourselves back in the State Capital setting up the ball game at the Iowa State Fair. When I asked why only the one joint, Andy explained, if we had a good run, one joint would keep us busy.
The weather was perfect for the State Fair, the crowds huge, and even in the face of a recession willing to part with their cash and have a good time. We worked hard trying to give our marks the entertainment they desired and still entice them into spending even when they were losing. With three days left in the run, I decided we`d have cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Cinnamon rolls, lightly iced, were Andy's favorite breakfast sweet treat. He'd drool like a basset hound when a pan full, hot and steamy, was placed in front of him. I loved watching his face light up and his eyes sparkle in anticipation and appreciation when confronted with this epicurean delight.
Removing the rolls from the oven, I could hear him coming down the hall from his bedroom to the kitchen. He would be naked of course. There's no way he would sleep in anything more than his own skin and continued to be unabashed by his nakedness in my presence. I smiled, hearing him get closer, and shook my head. He was quite the Andy!
Standing in my boxer shorts while drizzling a light powdered sugar glazing on the warm roll, I was greeted by Andy stepping up behind me, leaning his chin on my right shoulder, left hand on my left shoulder, and right hand on my hip and softly sighing, "Smells real good to me." He pressed farther forward, extending his chin so his face was next to mine, his hardness slipping into the cleft of my cloth covered butt, telegraphing an erotic message to my own rapidly engorging little soldier to come to attention and salute the flag. I felt a dampness begin to form where the end of his shaft poked into me and Andy, evidently realizing what he was doing, abruptly pulled away, announcing, "Gotta go -- have to piss," and scooted back down the hall to the bathroom.
If he only knew what he did to me each time I looked at him, touched him, or heard him speak and how deeply I'd fallen in love with him this summer, I'm certain he'd have fired me and sent me packing. It was a risk I just couldn't afford to take, not only for the sake of the job, but for the fact I enjoyed being around him so much.
The State Fair run was financially successful for us. As we headed back toward Iowa City to put the joints "back in the barn" as Andy called it, I became more and more depressed knowing, after we cleaned the joints and stored everything away, my life would return to what it was before I met Andy. After this next year of college, I'd graduate; hopefully find a job, and leave, without Andy and the life I'd come to love with him.
After two days of cleaning and packing things away, Andy announced, "Tonight we go out to eat. It's been a great year and you have to admit your share is at least twice what you'd have earned in a factory. The salary was just icing on the cake. My treat tonight is one way I can say thank you."
Dinner was excellent and we celebrated our financial success over the summer. My tuition and fees were paid for, with a healthy reserve in the bank, but I was miserable. Once back at Andy's, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, I finally got up and slowly meandered my way to Andy's office, standing with my arms crossed while looking out the bay window behind his desk at the distant lights of the city and the university campus. Tears slowly began slipping down my cheeks, a physical release of the internal emotional struggle my mind and my heart were enduring. There'd be two weeks before classes started, giving me the opportunity to be home with my Mom and Dad, but somehow, as much as I missed them, I knew once I left I'd be separated from Andy until next summer, perhaps permanently. The thought of separation from him was almost more than I could bear.
I didn't hear him come up behind me, but I knew he was there, as I always knew where he was. I could sense him; smell him before he even came close. Leaning back, as he encircled his arms around me, placing his head on my shoulder, his lips next to my ear, I heard him whisper, "Can't sleep?"
Shaking my head "no", I felt more tears welling in my eyes.
"Neither could I. What's the problem mon cherie?" Andy crooned soothingly, as he slid his hands around the front of me, sliding them into my boxers, fondling my balls with one hand, while gently stroking my cock with the other, then slowly slipping my boxers down below my waist. His own hard prod, dripping with magic moisture, slid up and down in the bare crack of my ass, as he sought entrance to me.
"Andy," I moaned, "yes, please!"
Leading me, willingly, back to his bedroom, we stood near the bed embracing each other, our stiff ardor rubbing one against the other. Andy kissed me, nuzzled my throat, nipped at my lips ever so gently, kissed my eyes, my face and murmured, "Sean, I've wanted you since that day you came to the carnival."
I slowly slid my hands down his naked back, cupped his beautiful, firm, yet soft mounds in my palms, pulling him even closer, causing him to thrust his sex up against my lower abdomen, then moved my hands to his front. Slowly, lovingly, my fingers toyed with and manicured the small bush resting at the root of his cock before grasping, then stroking, his throbbing member in one hand while gently fondling, manipulating, caressing his low hanging balls with the other.
"Oh, my God, Sean," he moaned into my ear, "I'll shoot my load if you keep that up."
It was the pleasure I wished to give him, but it wasn't to be at this time because he carefully pulled away from me, just a bit, and began lowering himself, kissing his way across my nipples, causing them to twitch and tighten with each kiss and each lap of his tongue as he swirled about each one. Descending lower, moving his soft mouth down across my stomach, arriving at my naval, he inserted his oral probe, sending shivers across my body, tightening my stomach. Moving his lips lower, he brushed my thatch with his nose and mouth, slipped a little lower and began suckling my cock as a babe would its mother's tit.
Andy moved his head back, looked at me, standing naked before him, shook his head ever so slightly in wonderment, saying quietly, passionately, " Oh, mon cherie, you are so beautiful." Fondling my smooth sperm factories with one hand, sliding the other behind me, finding that hereto un-entered portal, rubbing his index finger across its twitching pucker, he slowly, deeply engulfed my penis to the very root. Pulling back a bit, but not releasing me from that warm, sensual place, he flicked his tongue across the head, slipping it around my glans, then pulled all the way back and tongued the length of me before flicking the small slit at the end as if savoring the taste.
Andy stood, gently turned me around and lay me on his bed. Joining me, he maneuvered himself so I had access to his own engorged maleness, while he was able to feast on mine. I quickly reciprocated, wanting to taste him, smell him, feel him in those private special places where I had no access before. After a few minutes, he pulled himself back, leaving my mouth with a soft "plop", turned again, stretching himself the full length of my body, settling his firm staff directly on mine, then sliding them up against each other, lubricated by the pearly drops leaking from our tips. Kissing me, he softly said, "I want to make love to you, Sean, before I burst right here on top of you."
I nodded my willingness, but shrugged, "I've never done this before, so I'm not certain what to do, other than what I've read and seen pictures of on the Internet."
"Me neither," confessed Andy with a smile, "but I've done the same thing so I think I've a pretty good idea. What we don't know, we let passion take over and do for us."
Retrieving a tube of lotion from his nightstand, he massaged his shaft with some and that entrance to my inner self, now pulsing with desire for him, with more. Lifting my legs, spreading them to give him better access, he shuffled forward on his knees, pressed the head of his cock at my portal, and began to seek entrance as he leaned forward, kissing me with more passion and desire than I could ever imagine. The head and a small portion of his magnificent member slipped through the ring, the guardian gate, and began the journey into me. I thought it would be painful, at least what I read indicated it would be, but other than the initial pressure, there was only a feeling of fullness as I contracted and massaged his magic wand with my anal muscles and those of my bowel. There is no pain with love, only a sense of completeness and desire. Once Andy began his slow, loving, in and out, back and forth motion, I squealed with delight and gripped him tightly about his waist with my legs each time his cock massaged my prostate, that love button every male possesses, sending electric pulses of pleasure to my gonads, causing them to produce copious amounts of clear lubricant oozing out from my piss slit onto my abdomen, all a precursor to my ever closer ejaculation.
Andy, a gentle lover, filled with compassion for me, stimulated me with every thrust, until he began an "oh God, oh God," litany and whimpered erotically as he fucked harder, deeper, burying himself as deep as his cock would allow, resting his bush against my rosebud, shuddering in release, as he spewed his life force into me, coating my chute with a warmth that triggered my own orgasm, tightening my anal muscles, drawing my balls close against me, and squeezing, milking every drop from his cock. My own slippery contribution fired across my stomach, then up to his as he pressed himself on me, trying to prolong the sexual high we were experiencing, our naked bodies sealing us, one to the other in my own semen.
We lay there, in post coital stupor, enjoying the physical presence of each other. He kissed me, licked my ears, and murmured his love for me. His still hard shaft remained inserted in me, pulsing, throbbing, and giving him impetus to make gentle, but deep thrusts into me. Each push forward nudged my love button sending signals to my own cock and a gentle, but satisfying prod as my stomach felt the impact. Andy was all I ever dreamed about and ever wanted in my life.
Finally, he raised himself up on his elbows, smiled, saying, "Last June, before we started our summer run, Todd asked me if you were the one and I told him then you were, if you would have me, I'd be yours forever."
The ceremony was simple, with family and a few friends present, witnessing the union of two lovers, partners, and soul mates. Andy could hardly contain himself, all giggly, goofy acting, certainly not the serious joint operator I first met last summer. Unwilling to lose contact, he kept one hand on me during our reception. Every now and again, he'd grin, lean over and kiss me, on my lips, on my neck, my cheek, wherever, just to know he always could and to announce to anyone present, that he and I belonged to each other.
Thank you for reading "First of May." I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Other stories of mine can be found at:
Nifty- Beginnings - "Table Number Five" -- January 18, 2012
Nifty- Beginnings -"The Carpenter and the Piano Man" -- January 24, 2012
Nifty-Beginnings -- "Gillie" -- January 31, 2012
Nifty-High School - "Sheldon's Nutshuckers and the Stinky Pinky" -- February 14, 2012.
Nifty- Beginnings --"Last House on the Left" -- February 21, 2012
The Literary works of Nicholas Hall are protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and are the property of the author.
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