Mike and Danny: Stuff Happens
Note that these stories, including this one, are not an endorsement of unsafe sex. They take place many years before the appearance of AIDS and before it was standard practice to use condoms to reduce the risk of infection from sexually transmitted diseases. Remember always: that was then, this is now. Sex is precious, and so are life and health.
Chapter 7
Kirk
He'd had a hard-on for hours, and it was leaking against one leg in his jeans. And when Don came out to the barn around midnight to take the graveyard shift, Kirk knew he and Virgil would not be going straight to the bunkhouse. He had other plans. He was going to finish what he'd started that day if it took all night.
"When's the last time you checked the cows?" Don asked him.
"Half hour ago," Kirk said. In the bright moonlight he had ridden Don's bay gelding Byron slowly around the calving pasture looking over the herd. He'd returned to find Virgil asleep, sitting on an upturned nursing bucket and leaning with one shoulder into a corner, his feed cap pulled down over his eyes.
"Everything OK?" Don asked Kirk, looking into the pen with the twin calves.
"Yeppers."
"These two guys getting enough milk from their mama?"
"We mixed up a batch of formula," Kirk said. "They drank it all."
He'd woke up Virgil to get the nursing bucket he was sitting on, with its fat rubber nipple, the size of a man's dick, sticking out from the bottom of it.
One calf had sucked on Virgil's fingers while Kirk let the other one feed.
"Feel that?" Kirk said.
"Feels like he could swallow my whole arm."
"Imagine letting him give you a blowjob."
Virgil laughed. "You ever tried that?"
"Once."
And once was enough. It had felt like his cock was being pulled out by the roots. But the calf's rough tongue was not as bad as getting head-butted every few seconds by the calf's nose.
"Rattles your balls like a damn wind chime," he said. "And when you shoot your load, he just wants more and keeps going at you like gangbusters."
He'd socked the calf upside the head to no avail and finally shoved his fingers into its mouth far enough to pry open its jaws and break the suction. Afterwards, his cock stung from the fierce workout, and his balls had ached nonstop for at least a day.
They stood together again as they talked and the calves emptied the bucket. Feeling Virgil next to him in the quiet of the barn late at night, in the light of the electric lantern, he became aware of a kind of desire that was more than just wanting to fuck him—and finish it this time good and proper.
The feeling had surfaced that afternoon as they drove the heifers from the far pasture back to the ranch. Riding Betsy, he would glance over at Virgil, who was now driving the truck, one arm out the window and slapping the door as he shouted at the cows in his high, ringing voice to keep them moving.
Sitting in the saddle, the horse between his thighs, he felt again the pressure of Virgil's hips pressed against his butt. And each step of the horse gave a warm sensation that felt again like Virgil's cock pushing into him.
As he'd look over to Virgil, their eyes would meet and hold for a moment, and Virgil would grin at him—like now they had this big secret. And against his will and his good sense, against everything in him that was rock solid, Kirk found himself smiling back before turning away.
That same smile crept across his face as they stood together in the barn, hours later, hours after his butt had returned to normal, hours after he should have forgotten the whole damn thing.
And his arm had crept around Virgil's shoulders—like there was something connecting them, more even than a secret. Pressed like this against Virgil, his hard-on grew even harder, and he hoped that what he wanted was something that would go away once he got himself a good fuck. And go away for good.
Don sent them off after he'd been in the barn a while. "Get some sleep, boys. It'll be morning before you know it."
And they walked out of the barn into the moonlit night. It was no use going to the bunkhouse. Slim would be there, and he was a light sleeper anyway. So Kirk took Virgil by the arm and guided him to the hay barn.
But Virgil pulled them to a stop, like he'd suddenly thought of something. The silent stillness wrapped around them, and Virgil sighed, "Ahhh." He was looking up into the sky. Almost straight overhead was the Big Dipper, pointing in the milky moonlight to the North Star.
They stood for a while, saying nothing, and Kirk felt Virgil pull a hand from his coat pocket and slip it under his jacket into the small of his back, just over his butt. And then they walked on to the hay barn.
Inside, it was pitch dark. They felt their way to the pile of hay bales and began climbing up into them. Near the top they found a place that leveled out and they sat down, still without saying a word.
His dick was pressing hard in his jeans, and he was almost delirious with wanting to release the aching, burning pressure in his groin. He reached to find one of Virgil's legs and then his crotch, groping with his hand against the folds of denim, locating his balls, warm and yielding, and then his erection, rising up into the crook at the top of his thigh. He cupped his hand there, rubbing and stroking.
Virgil put both arms around his neck and pulled him down until they were lying flat, their chests pressed together. Kirk lay on top now, and he could feel Virgil's breath in his ear, his unshaven chin rough against his cheek.
He fumbled under him now for Virgil's belt buckle and got his jeans unbuttoned, thrusting his hand into the open fly to find again his erection, stiff and hard in his underwear, arching up from his belly. What he hadn't wasn't big, which had saved Kirk's ass when Virgil nailed him that afternoon in the pasture, but it was rigid as a railroad spike.
"Turn over," he whispered to Virgil now, and as Virgil flipped onto his stomach, Kirk pulled down his jeans. Then he unzipped his fly and reached inside to free his dick, which at this stage was a near impossibility. Like the monkey with his fist in the candy jar. Or fishing a foot-long hotdog sideways through a knothole.
Back in the barn, he'd found a jar of Vaseline in the medicine kit and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He got it out now and scooped some up with his fingers while he felt with the other hand for Virgil's butt in the dark.
He smoothed the gel into Virgil's crack and searched again for the tight ring of muscle there, slipping a finger now easily into it as Virgil shuddered and sighed.
He worked the spot for a while, his fingers sliding, now two of them, clamped tight together around the knuckles. Virgil squirmed under him, little muffled groans of either pain or pleasure escaping inside the collar of his coat shoved up around his ears.
Kirk got another thick gob of the Vaseline and greased up his dick, which was poking out from his fly. Then he eased himself over Virgil, and slowly pushed his hard-on between his butt cheeks, guiding it with his thumb along the length of his finger until it stopped at the same spot he couldn't get past that afternoon.
And then with a little push, he felt a warmth around the tip of his dick that meant he'd started to make it through.
Virgil gasped and he felt himself slip in farther, and with a short stroke he made some more headway, and as Virgil made little crying sounds between gulps of air, Kirk kept up the pressure, feeling his cock sink a bit farther with each careful thrust into the warmth of Virgil's body.
"Wait, wait," Virgil would say, going rigid under Kirk and arching back against him, the grip clenching around his cock. Then he'd say, "OK, OK," and Kirk would start up again.
Virgil now sounded like he was softly crying, little sobs coming from him in the darkness.
"You want me to stop?" Kirk finally said.
"No, no," Virgil said in a hoarse whisper and then kept sobbing.
So Kirk didn't stop, easing in deeper and deeper until his erection was buried and wrapped tight and warm—like a pig in a blanket—the way he liked it.
Then he rocked in and out by fractions of inches, Virgil making little whimpering sighs. Kirk knew he could shoot his wad in a minute or keep this up for a while. Somehow, and for some reason, he paused, pulling back until he could feel the cold air of the barn along the length of his cock.
The moment of standing together before came back to him, the moment of wanting more from Virgil than just a quick fuck—this roll in the ay happening right now – and while his arm had been around his shoulders, Virgil had reached with his hand into his open jacket, touching his shirt front, just over his heart. For a moment something had fallen away in him, like a cinder block wall flattened by a bulldozer.
"You sure you're OK?" he said to Virgil now.
"Please."
"Please what?" Kirk said. "Does this hurt?"
"No – yes—no,"
And when Kirk eased himself back in again, the urgency suddenly overtook any thoughts he'd been thinking, and pressing hard against Virgil he came in sudden surging spurts that ripped from him like rifle shots, his eyes closing in the cold, velvet darkness to fill for a moment with a burst of stars.
When he was done, he felt his body flushing warm inside his clothes. His hands had been pressed hard into the hay bales under them, and he lay forward now over Virgil, who seemed to be trembling or shivering, and covered him, hugging him between his arms.
Time passed minute by minute and finally Virgil stirred under him, just a little, the movement in his hips where Kirk could feel it as a slight tug on his still-hard penis.
"You want me to get off?" he said, just above a whisper.
"No," Virgil said.
Kirk reached up to the back of Virgil's head and, under his coat collar, the bare nape of his neck. His cap was gone, and his ears when he touched them were cold. Then he put his hand on the side of Virgil's face. His whiskery cheek was wet with tears.
Kirk wanted to ask about them but didn't know how. He wiped his fingers on Virgil's coat instead and just lay there for a while longer not saying anything.
He felt himself getting drowsy, the fatigue of a long day that started with waking before dawn on Mike's couch gathering now around him. For a moment he closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids only a little blacker than where he and Virgil lay in the pile of hay bales.
There was a quick dream of walking along the rim of a slick rock canyon. Some place in Utah, when he was a boy. And he was a boy again in the dream, alone but happy as he peered into the tops of trees that grew in the canyon wall, their bright leaves fluttering in the sunshine.
When he woke, it was seconds or minutes later.
"You still got a boner down there?" he finally said.
"Yes," Virgil said after a moment's thought.
"Let's take care of that," Kirk said and slowly pulled his softening cock from the warmth of Virgil's body. After shifting to the side and stuffing himself, wet and slippery, into his fly, he found the back of Virgil's jeans and pulled them up to cover his legs.
Then he put one hand on Virgil's naked hip and pulled him over so that he was lying back in Kirk's arms, the side of his face against Kirk's shoulder.
Kirk reached under Virgil's big coat and found his cock, still hard, just as he said, and he stroked it with his free hand until he came, the hot wetness suddenly spreading over his fingers in the dark.
He wiped his hand on the back of his jeans, and then he pulled Virgil to him, the top of his head against Kirk's chin, and they lay huddled together, pressed against the hay bales behind them.
Kirk opened Virgil's coat and put his hand inside, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt collar, a button, a pocket, and finally slipping under his arm. He could feel Virgil's heartbeat there under his ribs, and the slow rhythm of his breathing before falling now into a dreamless sleep.
When he woke, the thin gray light of early dawn was visible through the big open door of the hay barn below them. Virgil lay against him, his face buried in Kirk's chest. During the night he had unzipped his big coat and pulled it over Kirk, his arm thrown across him, trapping the warmth of their bodies inside.
Stiff from lying on the hard hay bales, Kirk shifted and stretched. Virgil stirred but did not wake, and in the faint light Kirk could see his face, eyelids closed but moving as his eyes followed the unfolding of a dream. His mouth fell open, lips parting as Kirk watched.
Curious, Kirk put his hand between Virgil's legs. His levi's were still unbuttoned, and in his underwear he had another hard erection. As Kirk touched him, Virgil stirred again sighing.
The hope—a hope against hope, Kirk realized—that one really good fuck would clear out the confusion he'd begun to feel, like changing the oil in his truck or flushing out the radiator—that hope had not panned out.
Looking again at Virgil's face with his hand still on his cock, he found himself wondering what Virgil was dreaming about, and he knew he hadn't had a thought like that in a long time. He'd rarely been curious enough about another man to care.
This wasn't good.
He let go of Virgil, pulled Virgil's big coat around him and zipped it shut. He got up, walked to the back of the pile of bales and got out his dick, still damply greasy, to take a long piss over the edge.
Standing there, he caught a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye. And then another. He turned, shaking off the last drops, and in the open doorway of the barn he saw someone coming with a flashlight, its beam falling along the ground outside and now sweeping across the floor of the barn, settling finally on Virgil's cap, which lay upside down at the foot of the stack of bales.
Kirk was zipping up his jeans when the light lifted and found him.
"That you?" he heard a voice say.
"Depends on who wants to know," he said, peering back, blinded, into the bright beam of light. He could see nothing now in the near-darkness around it.
"You want any chuck, you better come running," the voice said. "The new cook's not a patient man."
The light then pulled away, searching, until it fell on Virgil's sleeping form.
"You boys too particular now to bunk with Indians?" the voice said.
Aw, fuck, Kirk thought. It was George. Where had he come from?
He walked over to Virgil and started shaking him. "Virgil, wake up, buddy," he said. "Rise and shine."
Virgil, too groggy to understand what was happening, let Kirk rouse him to his feet, and they started down off the stack of bales, stopping before getting to the bottom for Virgil to pull up his levi's and button them.
George made no further comment, like whatever two white boys were doing all night in a hay pile was of no interest to him. He was holding Virgil's cap when they got to him, and Kirk took it and put it on Virgil's head, since he didn't seem to comprehend that it belonged to him—or what to do with it.
They followed George, the beam of light playing over the ground in front of them. Above, the moon was gone, and only a few stars shone where the sky was still mostly dark. In the east, the faintest hint of color could be seen along the low horizon.
Kirk could see George now, silhouetted against the eastern sky, wearing his hat with the father dangling from it—an eagle feather, he claimed—came back from the rez once with it.
Inside the house, the warmth of the kitchen and the smell of hot foot made him realize how cold he'd been. Stepping through the door, he stopped for a moment, and Virgil stumbled into the back of him.
He expected George to make a remark about finding them in the hay barn, but he said nothing. Just poured himself a cup of coffee from the big pot on the stove and sat at the table without taking off his hat, as Slim brought over a platter of eggs and bacon from the warming oven.
Virgil took one of the chairs across from George, easing himself down gently, like he was maybe a little sore from last night. Kirk glanced at him, and his face had the stunned look of someone who'd somehow walked away from a bad car wreck. He went to the stove and poured cups of coffee for both of them.
Slim, wearing a cook's white apron around his waist, set a plate stacked with hotcakes on the table.
"Mornin', boys," Don said, entering from the door to the rest of the house. There was a murmur of response around the room.
Don had washed up, his hair still wet over his forehead, and put on a clean shirt. He sat at the table and reached with a fork to fill up his plate with food.
"Sure looks good, Slim," he said.
"Thanks, boss," Slim said. "Soon's we got the sourdough started, there'll be biscuits and gravy."
"Slim," Don said, grinning. "You're the man of my dreams."
Then he looked at Virgil, who was staring into his empty plate. "Eat up, son," he said. "Big day ahead."
Kirk, sitting next to Virgil, reached under the table and shook his leg.
Slim turned from the stove and looked at him kindly. "Cowboy hours take some gettin' used to," he said. "Sorry all's we got is that army cot for you to sleep on."
Kirk looked at Slim, whose expression gave away nothing but genuine concern, and then to George, who stared back at him for a moment, gave the slightest shrug, and then went back to eating.
"I'm OK," Virgil said, coming to life. "Best night's sleep I ever had." And he picked up his fork to flip a couple hotcakes onto his plate—and then two more.
Kirk discovered that his hand was still on Virgil's thigh, and before taking it away he squeezed the muscle, firm under the denim.
"Glad to hear it," Don said, and he took another mouthful of food, washing it down with coffee.
It was possible, Kirk realized, that Slim had got up in the dark and never saw their beds had not been slept in. The only one who knew was George, and George – wily redskin—was keeping it to himself.
There was no more talk for a while as the men concentrated on filling their stomachs. And they ate until all the plates were empty.
Continued . . .