Date: Sun, 04 Apr 2010 15:12:25 -0700
From: dingalingo@hushmail.com
Subject: Going Home

This is a work of erotic fiction. If it is illegal where you are, then
don't read further. Any resemblance to actual people is entirely
coincidental.

Copyrighted - © 2010.  I can be reached at dingalingo@hushmail.com
All Rights Reserved.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


They say you can't go home.

They also say the exception proves the rule. Whether this trip would prove
the rule or be the exception, I didn't know.

America's midwest - the corn belt - is like a foreign country after living
in the insular world of San Francisco. In The City, you can walk down the
street naked and the cops don't even bat an eye. Men regularly make out in
city parks with their hands down each others pants, and if breeders with
kids in tow say a word about it, they will be pilloried as intolerant
homophobes. Gotta love The City.

Had it not been for my older brother's 25th wedding anniversary, I'd have
had no reason to return to Plainview. There was nothing there for me. Their
entire claim to fame is that some has-been Walt Disney movie star was born
there. Seriously. The Plainview museum consists of, like, thousands of
pictures of him, and maybe a few arrowheads found by farmers while plowing
their fields.

I don't want to sound like I'm bitter toward Plainview. I'm not. It's just
culture shock, that's all. In fact, my upbringing in Plainview was very
good. I had the time of my life. Boys will be boys wherever you go, and
boys in Plainview were most definitely boys. If I was to count them, I'd
probably come up with a few dozen or more sex partners I had there - all
before I left when I turned 14. That was 26 years ago.

My life since those halcyon days of budding childhood lust had taken a
dramatic turn. I returned that day as a big city interior designer with a
successful business in San Francisco - the epicenter of design on the West
Coast. Returning to my hick roots in Plainview was going to be a bore, but
I would suffer through it stoically for my brother and escape town the next
morning. That was the plan.

I didn't recognize much as I entered town on the two-lane highway. I don't
know why I expected everything to be the same. If you'd have said I would
need directions to find my way around this small town, I would have laughed
at you. It was my childhood stomping grounds; I knew the place like the
back of my hand.

Shortly after entering the city limits, I pulled into a little hamburger
stand with a neon sign flashing "Gunny's" in huge cursive letters, figuring
I would use their bathroom and grab a cheeseburger and coke, and find out
where the hell I was. I was completely lost, and my gut was protesting the
iffy breakfast croissant I'd been served on the flight that morning.

I had coordinated my arrival to coincide with the arrival of my son and his
family, but I had a half hour or so to spare, so I sat down at a table and
plucked a well-worn menu from the clip on a napkin dispenser.

A cute mop-haired teenage boy took my order as I ran my eyes over his
nubile frame with the hint of a promising little package showing under an
extremely tight, low-cut pair of blue jeans and a wide, black leather
grommeted belt. I admired his round buns as he turned and handed my ticket
to the T-shirt clad cook inside a stainless steel window to the kitchen.
They looked like father and son. From the name "Gunny's" I would wager dad
had a marine emblem tatooed somewhere on his well-muscled body. I made a
mental note to refrain from staring at the boy's ass and crotch. Dad might
not approve, and while the customer is always right, I assumed that in
Plainfield that rule has is a pervert clause which exempts dirty old men
who are openly lusting after the proprietor's son.

When the man placed my order in the window and rang a bell to summon the
boy, I took a closer look to confirm a familial relationship, and thought
it was pretty certain. Both had the same handsome features. Suddenly the
dad seemed as interesting as the son. Very nice corn-fed midwestern beef.
Prime cut. I'll take a pound - wrap it up!

As the aluring boy placed my burger in front of me, I ventures a "hi,"
toward the dad with my best schmoozing smile. "It's been a while since I've
been in town, and I think I got turned around." He nodded expressionlessly,
waiting for me to get to the point. Not endowed with the gift of gab, this
marine. But the face was friendly enough. "Could you tell me how to get to
Kraft Avenue and First?"

He cocked his head as if thinking it over, and disappeared from the
window. A moment later, his 6 foot frame emerged from a stainless steel
door and approached my table. "You commin' from north?" He nodded in the
direction from which I had indeed come.

"Yes. I took the freeway from Madison, then the highway at Junction 10."

"You missed the fork in the road. It happens. You're from around here, eh?"

"A long time ago," I responded. "When I was a teenager. Things have
changed."

His steel blue eyes seered through me. He was near my age, probably a bit
younger - around 35 or 40, and he did indeed have a marine emblem on his
muscled forearm. He exuded raw power, and I found my loins stirring as he
towered over me. I wondered if directions to Kraft and First were
forthcoming, but my throat was drying up. I felt foolish that I was having
this reaction to a small town loser flipping burgers. But for some reason,
I felt like a school child in class, and the teacher's attention was on me.

After a pregnant pause that made a bead of sweat extrude from my temple and
run down my cheek, he repeated, "You missed the fork in the road. It
happens." His eyes bore through me, as if he could see into my soul, and my
heart began to visibly pound in my chest. The budding arousal in my pants
reversed course and my penis and balls retreated like they expected to get
kicked.

My throat cinched into a tight mass, and I croaked, "And First Street
is..." As I picked up my red plastic glass of Coke to wet my parched
throat, my hand visibly shook and my lips stuck to suddenly dry teeth.

"The fork in the road." He clarified. "About five blocks back. You missed
it. It happens." He lifted the short apron around his waist as he wiped his
hands, revealing an unmistakably generous bulge in his white trousers, and
walked to the window with his back to me. Nice ass, too. I wondered how big
his cock was. "How long?"

Coke went down my windpipe, and I spewed a mouthful into my burger basket.
"Pardon?" I squeaked, and reached for a napkin, knocking the coke over and
sending its contents flowing across the table. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry." Hot
prickles of sweat sprouted all over my scalp, and I could feel cold beads
of sweat rolling down my armpits.

Panic filled me as if I was in a pressure cooker and it was being forced in
through every pore. My bowels loosened and cramped as liquid shit slammed
into my sphincter, probing desperately for a way out. I clenched my
buttcheeks and muttered, "Oh, God."

He looked back over his shoulder expressionlessly to take note of the Coke
cascading from his table, and looked back out the window. "How long since
you been in town?"

The boy appeared at my shoulder with a towel and began to mop up the spill.
"I'm sorry." I pleaded, desperate for an ally. Mercifully, the teen smiled
in genuine understanding and said, "No problem, sir. I'll get this."  I
could have kissed him. He bent over right before my eyes to sop up the
spilled soda, and my eyes bulged at the tight young teen ass presented to
me like a baboon in heat.

"Teenager." My heart stopped at the man's statement. Was I that obvious? My
sphincter cinched even tighter to resist the building pressure. What kind
of cruel game was this guy playing?

I raised the napkin in my hand to my face and wiped it across my forehead,
replacing a few beads of sweat with a river of coke from the soggy paper
rag. Coke dripped into my eyes, and I yelped in pain.

"You say you were a teenager when you lived here." He said casually. I
pried my stinging right eye open and peered at his broad, stiff back
incredulously. He was toying with me.

My bowels gurgled malevolently, and, squinting like Popeye, I cast my
single good eye about for a restroom sign, seeing one across the room. I
stood up and my calves caught the underside of the chair perectly, sending
it flying onto it's back in a loud crash. "Yes... teenager," I responded to
the cook, glaring at the offending chair in disbelief. Et tu, Brute?

Leaving the chair tipped over, I lurched into the restroom in a blind panic
and turned the latch solidly behind me, leaning heavily on the door with my
left eye clenched painfully shut. I heaved a sigh of relief and spun toward
the sink and toilet. Which first?

With my head under the faucet, I rinsed my seering eyes first as I shucked
my sportcoat, letting it fall to the floor, and struggled to unbuckle my
belt. With water dripping from my face, my pants barely cleared the toilet
rim as a jet of hot lava sprayed out my ass. Exhausted, I sat down with a
loud sigh and my ass fell through into the brown water of the open bowl.

Slowly, a laugh started to percolate up from my gut. It started as a
chuckle and grew to a full throated belly laugh as my bowels belched
bubbles under the water.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged sheepishly from the restroom and pulled the
door with a blue "women" plaque closed behind me. I suppressed a giggle. I
caught a reflection of myself in a piece of heavily polished stainless
steel, and the image was absurd. My hair looked like I'd just come in from
a hurricane, my $200 Italian dress shirt and $800 sport jacket were
disheveled and soaked with water, coke and sweat. I leaned close to look at
my eyes, and giggled again at the sight of the puffy red bloodshot orbs
leering back at me. My left eye twitched.

Turning to look suspiciously around the nondescript diner, I noted it was
deserted and I suppressed the urge to bolt and silently asked God to please
allow me to survive Plainview and get back to San Francisco alive, where
men are EXPECTED to admire a teenage boy's butt.

At the table, I extracted a $20 from my wallet, then another $20, then
pulled all the cash out and laid it on the table by the burger basket. I
had used virtually all the supplies in the ladies room cleaning up the
mess. The last thing I needed was the owner calling the cops on me for
toilet paper theft. My eye twitched again.

As stealthfully as I could, I tiptoed to the door, eased it open and
slipped outside.

As I turned onto First Street at the fork I had missed, I mumbled, "It
happens," and wished my eye would stop twitching.

When I pulled up in front of my brother Robert's Victorian house a few
minutes later, my son was unloading his family from a minivan in the
driveway. I grasped the wheel of the rental with both hands and took a deep
breath, then turned the rear-view mirror to examine my face. I looked like
a survivor of a shipwreck. Licking my fingers, I drew them over a
particularly deviant patch of hair, to no avail. It sprang back in jutting
defiance.

The anniversary dinner proved to be a riotous affair. Soon after meeting
for the first time, by 7 year-old grandson and his cousins decided to
engage in the mindless juvenile sport of chasing one another around the
house screaming at full voice. The older kids played video games at full
volume in order to hear it above the din of the younger ones, and the
adults were forced to yell at one another in order to be heard above it
all. To say the experience left my nerves in tatters is an understatement.

As evening fell, I stepped out onto the wrap-around porch to get some fresh
air just in time to see an older red pickup truck nose in behind my son's
minivan, and the cook from Gunny's get out still wearing his food-stained
apron.

My chest clenched like I was having a heart attack. The marine regarded me
without expression for a moment and then walked purposefully up the steps
to stand before me. Slack-jawed, I tried to mumble some sort of greeting,
but my brain refused to offer any words and my lips moved in silence.

Feeling a familiar sense of panic wash over me, I wavered dizzily on my
feet.

"You left this." Fanned out in his hand was the money I'd left on the table
- several twenties and a couple of hundreds.

"Tip." I croaked.

"Too much." He responded.

"Not when you consider..." I gulped. Maybe he hadn't seen the mess in the
ladies room yet. "You know - the mess."

"Yeah, quite a mess you left." He stepped forward into the space I was
occupying, forcing me to stumble back into the closed screen door. My knees
buckled, and his large hands clamped my shoulders to steady me. My relief
that he did not hit me was short lived, as he let go of my left shoulder
and slapped me hard across the face.

My head stayed turned to the right, where the force of the slap had left
it. I could feel blood rushing to the site of the slap, but no pain yet. My
ears rang as he said my name: "Peter Sackett." I turned to look at him, and
his left palm slammed into my other cheek with even more force, sending my
head the opposite direction from the last blow. That one hurt.

Eyes closed, I waited for more blows, but none came. I looked at him again,
wincing in anticipation of another slap - or worse.

"You don't recognize me, do you?" His eyes were not angry. He had the same
sedate look on his face as he had when I first saw him through the kitchen
window at the diner as his son with the very nice ass gave him my order.

"Should I?" I croaked, and instantly regretted it. He slapped me hard
again. I tasted blood in my mouth.

"Yes, you should. Folks call me Gunny. My name is Tim. Timothy Gunderson.

This time he didn't steady me as my legs gave out and I slid down to the
porch with my back to the screen door.

Timmy Gunderson had lived next door to me as a child here in Plainview. He
was about 7 years younger than me and for several years bracketing the
onset of my puberty, I had used him and his brother almost daily as my
personal sex toys.

He took the bills from his T-shirt pocket and let them flutter onto me,
then he turned and walked toward his truck leaving me sprawled there with
my face swelling and my cock stirring in my pants.

As the truck pulled out, Robert came to the front door and said, "Mind if I
get through?" and gave the door a little push. I scooted my butt over, and
he came out holding a couple of beers as the truck turned onto First and
departed.

"Jesus." Robert said as he bent to get a closer look at my red, swelling
face. "Are you OK?"

Realizing he had not seen any of the preceding attack, I replied, "Yeah.
Allergic reaction, I think - I'll be OK." I took one of the beers and
emptied half the can in one drink. With my knees bent, my rack-hard penis
was hidden, but I would not be able to rise for a few minutes, at least.

I leaned my head back against the white clapboards and sighed heavily,
still staring at the place where the red truck had disappeared. The fear
that had bound me faded away, replaced by a tingle of anticipation. Probing
the inside of my bleeding mouth with my tongue, I decided I could stay in
Plainview a few more days.


* * * * * * * * * * *

I can be reached at dingalingo@hushmail.com If you think this story is
compelling enough to continue, please let me know. I have a lot of stories
in me - most based on actual events - and I want to spend time only on ones
that please others.