Mike and Danny: Straight Crush
by Rock Lane Cooper

This is a work of homoerotic fiction. If you are offended by such material or if you are not allowed access to it under the laws where you live, please exit now. This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be copied or distributed in any form without the written permission of the author, who may be contacted at: rocklanecooper@yahoo.com

Chapter 6


OK, so Barry's got my number. I'm still getting used to it and waiting for some other shoe to drop. But life instead just goes on. Winter descends, and to borrow a line from the University of Nebraska fight song, we all go to classes and freeze off our asses.

He and I were in his office one morning. The winter sun outside the window was blindingly bright off the new snow. I was looking out at students hurrying along the shoveled walks, wearing heavy coats and stocking caps pulled over their ears. It was a day of windless, piercing cold.

"What's it like?" Barry was asking me.

He had fired up his Mr. Coffee and was brewing a pot. We'd taken to starting the winter days like this. I hadn't thought much about it, but the two of us had become something more than just colleagues. Friends, I guess you'd say.

Instead of professional interests, what we shared was a preference for procrastination. We put off starting the day by meeting at his office and drinking coffee until finally one of us had to go teach a class.

"What's what like?" I said.

"Having sex with another man." He was sitting down at his cluttered desk, putting his feet up on one corner.

This question didn't surprise me. He'd been hinting around at it ever since he'd found out about Mike.

"You mean, who does what to who?" I said. I knew from hearing jokes and locker-room talk that this was the part other men were curious about.

"Give me a little credit. I wouldn't pry into your personal life like that," he said.

"Yes, you would."

I sat down across from him and held the coffee mug in my lap, letting the warmth seep down to my crotch. My balls, hugging to me after a cold drive to campus and a colder walk from the parking lot, now began to relax in my shorts.

"OK, maybe I would," he said. "But think of it as me just taking a professional interest."

"What's it like having sex with a woman?" I asked him. I wasn't all that curious, but I thought he might back off if I let him hear his own question coming back at him.

He didn't pause for a moment. "It's like crowning yourself king of the world," he said, surprising me.

Now you have to understand, I have never been interested in Barry. And it's safe to say his interest in me is strictly on the level. What pleasure we take in each other's company is uncomplicated by desire, all of which is why I've liked being friends with him.

And I knew that for him, that comment about his sex life was just guy talk. A kind of boasting that may have had little basis in fact, but challenged me to go him one better with a snappy comeback of my own.

But I was all out of snappy comebacks.

So I told him something that was actually true. Not always true, but once so intense that I've never forgotten it. . .

It was early spring, almost corn-planting time. The trees at the farm were starting to green up, and there was that raw smell of damp earth on the air. You could feel things stirring, something big coming.

I was out in the garage, sweeping the floor, putting away the winter stuff, burning trash, straightening up Mike's work bench, and I'd taken down the garden hose and found a plastic bucket to wash Mike's truck as soon as he got back from a trip to town. With the spring rains and the thawing country roads, he'd got it all muddy.

When he drove up, he came walking over to the garage, Rusty who'd gone out to meet him following along beside. He was in his go-to-town clothes, that being his newest pair of wranglers, a new seed cap, and a pair of work shoes that had never been used for work.

"Been busy," he said, tipping his cap back and looking around as he stood in the open garage door. Inside his denim jacket I could see folded papers and receipts poking out of his shirt pocket.

I leaned the broom I was holding against the workbench and walked over to him. I slipped my arms around him, and as I put my hands on his butt I could feel his wallet shoved tight into one back pocket and his checkbook in the other.

He shifted in my arms to get closer to me. And instead of giving him a quick kiss on the side of his face, as I thought I'd do, I felt a soft explosion of life in my shorts and I pressed the front of my jeans into him.

"Missed you, too, bud," he said in my ear. And I expected his usual chuckle when he's feeling happy and horny. But the silence instead was like he'd been gone for weeks or months, not just a couple hours.

Could have been the fresh air, the sap rising in the trees, dandelions already springing up in the lawn, but I found myself hugging him tighter, then stroking his back hard with both hands, pressing my arms over muscle and bone and shoving my fingers as far as they would go into the back side of his jeans. His belt cinched up snug around him, I couldn't get much more than one knuckle inside them.

By now, Mike was pulling up my shirt to get his hands inside. I felt his cool fingers against my skin, gliding over my ribs and into my underarms to twist and pull at my armpit hair.

I brought one hand around to the front of his jeans and felt for his cock, which was warm and getting hard against his leg, and I started unbuckling his belt.

It may have been because of Mike's silence, something intense like I wasn't expecting, that this strange thing happened. A feeling for him came over me— and this is what I was trying to explain to Barry—not the feeling of raging desire that was charging through my loins (which I'm certainly well acquainted with) but of something else—a kind of awe and wonder.

Unzipping his jeans, with all the deliberation of someone defusing a bomb (and make of that metaphor what you will)—I can't think of any other way to say this—I became aware of him as a man. Not that he hadn't always been a man to me, but this time it was like I was seeing all of him, his whole life—all the days and years of him becoming who and what he was.

I felt the lonely courage, the toughness and under that the softness, his discovery of what is expected of a man (what he means when he says, "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do"), the leaving behind of his boyhood—all this stuff that he had to learn and do for himself.

All of this came over me like a bolt of lightning—the darkness around my usual sexual gropings suddenly illuminated and the flash of insight lingering on the inner retina as I reached my hand into his fly to feel again his hard cock in his boxers.

I thought about it afterwards, trying to put words to what I was feeling, and the best I could come up with was "honor"—and a bunch of longer words I won't use here because they'd only make me sound like I'm talking out of my ass.

But honor. Yeah, that comes close.

And as long as I touched him, pushing against him, my chest pressed deep against his, the feeling stayed with me—a feeling that graduated into amazement that I was even having such a feeling at a time like this.

And it intensified, if that was possible, as I pulled open his jeans and pushed them down on his hips so I could get my hands and then my mouth around his hard-on.

OK, it was my own lust driving me on. It had ignited the fire in my jockeys. But something was burning in my chest, too—and I won't start naming body parts there because it could so easily head us down that slippery slope to gluey romantic stuff, and that's not where I want to go with this.

The mechanics at this point were not a lot different from usual and just the way I like them (and for Barry's benefit, he got a glimpse into the wonderful variety of who does what to who). I wasted no time getting Mike's cock as far as it would go against the back of my throat, the whole length of him pressing along my tongue, my nose buried in the warm funky smell of his pubic hair.

Meanwhile, this part of his body—a place I'd come to call Boxer Land—that I thought I knew by heart (whoops, gotta watch my language), was like somewhere I'd never been before. There was the Mike I'd come to know, and then there was this new Mike who'd been hiding out in plain sight, but somehow I'd always missed.

One of my hands was locked hard over his butt—if he walked away, he'd be dragging me with him—the muscles there flexing under my grip. With the other, I tugged down the front of his shorts so I could slip my fingers around his balls.

At the same time, it felt like I'd thrown myself around everything he'd ever lived through, the remembered and the forgotten, all of it there to embrace and wonder at and never let go of.

Put another way, the usual salty taste of his dick was familiar—like a beer and a favorite song on the jukebox—but the rest was uncharted territory. I'd slipped off the edge of the map.

Looking back afterward, and this feeling has never completely left me, I realized that I've always thought—well, I learned it at an impressionable age—that men were basically flawed.

They didn't go bad; they were all a little bad from the start. No matter how well brought up they were by their moms, they ultimately yielded to their worst instincts and became an embarrassment to themselves and everyone else.

Now as to who's to blame for this idea I'm not pointing any fingers, but that spring morning in the garage at the farm, I knew once and for all it was pure hogwash. Yeah, I wasn't perfect and I did dumb things, but it wasn't because I was someone who happened to get born with a penis. My being male had nothing to do with it.

It took holding a man in my arms, pulling open his pants, and feeling my mouth fill with the taste of him to discover that truth.

And as I said, while I may not have been so sure about myself, I could let that realization come over me for Mike. And what I felt for him was just that— honor.

Anyway, I told Barry some version of this, skimming over ninety percent of the graphic details and making a big point out of the revelation that came at the end—I figured this would carry some weight with him. Give him something to think about.

"That's what having sex with another man can be like," I said.

And he was thoughtful, staring into his coffee mug as he mulled it over.

"Makes a kind of sense," he finally said, but not looking at me, like he was thinking of someone or something else.

"They don't cover that in the textbooks?" I asked.

He put his feet down to reach again for the Mr. Coffee. "Not exactly," he said.

And that seemed to satisfy his curiosity, so I decided not to tell Barry the rest of what happened that day. Which went like this . . .

Mike didn't come in my mouth, as Barry probably assumed, if he was willing to let his imagination even go that far. When Mike's dick got really hard, he pulled himself out and hurried to the back of the garage where I had stacked the bags of mulch he'd brought home for the fruit trees he'd planted.

I watched him, with his jeans hanging loose around his butt, and pulling lower with the weight of his wallet, as he bent down to pick up a neatly folded canvas tarp and spred it over them.

When he turned to me, what I saw was a man almost but not quite fully dressed, jacket over a shirt with papers sticking out of one pocket, cap on the back of his head, pants pulled mostly up, and from his open fly his rumpled shirt tail and a stiff erection that bobbed as he moved.

I walked over to him, unbuttoning my levi's, and he set me down on the tarp, popping the sneakers from my feet and pulling my jeans off. I'd worked up a little sweat, and I felt a cool rush of air on my bare skin.

It took two or three big gobs of spit from both of us and a couple false starts, but he got himself into me, and as I lay there, I felt this mystery I'd begun to fathom linger a moment and then slowly start to fade.

Standing over me, his hips pressing between my legs and his balls falling stroke after stroke against me, Mike became mostly himself again. His eyes closed for a while, his mouth falling open in a little grin under his mustache, a couple days growth of dark whiskers on his chin. His hands pressed against the backs of my legs, lifting my butt off the tarp.

When he got to a point, I knew he'd open his eyes to look at me.

"You all right, bud?" he'd say.

I'd nod. "Yeah."

And I'm sure this is the part of sex with a man Barry was dying to know about. Some day I may tell him.

In the dim light at the back of the garage, the plastic mulch bags rubbing together softly under our rocking weight, I watched Mike's eyes close again, and after a few more slow, steady strokes I could feel him begin to come, deep inside me.

By now, it was just the two of us and the present moment in time—no falling down rabbit holes—and that was jim-dandy with me. Side trips off the map in your mental 4x4 are fine for discovering things that can even change your life, but I'm also big on coming back to what's familiar and predictable.

And I'll never get enough of Mike just like this, joined at the crotch, his eyes opening from wherever he goes when he comes, finding me there grinning back at him, and him saying, "What?" like I know something I'm not telling him.

"Nothin,'" I say.

And with his eyes still on mine, I felt him ease himself out of me and then take my cock in his hand to begin lazily stroking the precum around the end of it with his thumb.

Now it was my turn to close my eyes, and I lay back sighing as he rubbed, nuzzled, sucked, and pulled on me—sometimes it's like he's downshifting the pickup on a stretch of really bad road—and as he leaned over me to push up my shirt and put his warm mouth on my nipples, I came in a gush all over both of us.

In the next minute, as Mike kissed me, his hand still gripping my cock, I heard Rusty start barking somewhere outside, and there was the sound of a car pulling into the driveway from the road.

"Fuck," Mike said. "Somebody's here."

He reached down and handed me my jeans and then looked out the side window.

"It's Ernie, the mailman," he said. "Must have a package for us."

He was stuffing his shirt into his wranglers and hiking them up to buckle his belt.

"Keep barking, Rusty," he said. "Maybe he'll stay in the car if he thinks you'll bite him."

He was rubbing his wet hands on his jeans and then looking down at his shirt. "Shit," he laughed. "You got me good." He tried wiping at the streaks of cum.

"You got some of your own there, too, running down your leg," I pointed out.

I was pulling on my levi's and looking around on the floor for my sneakers.

"Aw, what does Ernie know anyway," Mike said. "It could be calf slobber."

"We don't have any calves," I said.

"He don't know that either," Mike said and walked to the door, pulling up his zipper.

Continued . . .

More stories. There's a novel-length story about Mike and Danny called "Two Men in a Pickup" and other stories posted at nifty.org. You can find links to them all, plus pictures of the characters and some cowboy poetry at the Rock Lane Cooper home page. Click here.

© 2005 Rock Lane Cooper