Two Men in a Pickup
by Rock Lane Cooper

This is a work of gay erotic 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. I may be contacted at:

Chapter 3


OK, now it's Saturday night, and we've circled up the wagons with a big bowl of buttered popcorn to watch a rerun of "Gunsmoke." This is Mike's favorite TV show; he's devoted to Marshal Dillon. I can only think Mike never outgrew a crush he had on the man when he was a boy.

This part of the story, however, is mostly about another boy, Kirk, so I'll mention that he's just come in from his shower, showing us during a commercial how he can hang a wet towel from his erection. This I guess is meant as an addition to his other dick tricks, including the no-hands hat trick, the swinging soap-on-a-rope, and the paper towel tube penis-extender -- that last one a bit of a surprise if you first catch it out of the corner of your eye.

His idea of a joke is coming out of the shower naked, running into the room with his dick aimed at us like a machine gun spraying bullets and going, "At-at-at-at-at-at! Got all of ya!" This kind of behavior wears thin.

I may as well say here, too, that Kirk is more than usually antsy because he's got himself a boyfriend, who's coming for a visit from Kearney next weekend -- at least we think so. His name is Rich, and Kirk met him on his 4th of July fishing trip with Mike. I'd like to say that romance has made Kirk more docile, but that would be a lie. He's still mostly a pain in the butt.

He and Rich met the first day at the boat launch and hit it off right away. By evening, they were best buddies and sleeping in the same tent. Jacking off together all night, more like it. That being, as I've gathered, the extent of Kirk's experience.

Kirk is actually pretty forthcoming with the details. "He's a sniffer," Kirk says. I ask him to elaborate. "You know," he says, "he puts his nose in my armpits." He waits for my reaction.

"Nothing wrong with that," I tell him.

"And my socks," he adds.

"Nothing really wrong with that either," I say.

He breathes a sigh of relief. For a high school graduate, he's such an innocent. I blame the Mormons.

He must know Mike and I have found other things to do in bed with each other, but I get the idea he's pretty vague about them. And I'm content to leave it at that, but Mike (who apparently has time to think these thoughts while hauling milk all day for the dairy) seems to feel that Kirk's sexual education needs our attention.

Well, more exactly, my attention. Because like a father embarrassed to mention sex to his offspring, Mike can't bring himself to raise the subject with the boy.

I object. "He's your nephew, not mine," I say.

"Take him aside, will you?" he insists. "Teach him a few things. I don't want him learning the way I did." I don't know Mike's whole story, but I get a picture here of latrines, truck stops, and off-limit bars.

"Tell you what," I say. "If he asks, I'll tell him everything he wants to know."

Mike makes a face, like that's not good enough.

Anyway, back to "Gunsmoke" night, an episode involving ex-Confederate soldiers and an assortment of outlaws who get themselves into big trouble south of the border. At the end there's a blazing shoot-out with a body count like the last act of Shakespeare.

"Man, didn't that guy just get shot in the balls?" Kirk says. He's sitting bare-assed on the carpet, the bath towel shoved between his legs.

"I don't think they do that on this program," Mike says.

The show wraps up, and Mike wants to know when Kirk, who has kitchen duty, is planning to do the supper dishes. (Sorry to disrupt this picture of bachelor paradise with domestic details, but there's a reason.)

Kirk pleads to put them off till morning, but Mike is firm. He runs a tight ship. "And put some pants on," he says.

So, I'm in the kitchen with a dish towel, and Kirk has filled the sink to his elbows with soap suds. I'm more supervising than drying, handing back everything he doesn't get right.

A guy Mike knows from work drives up in a new Ranchero, and they're outside talking under the pole light, Mike in his T-shirt and wranglers, leaning in the window. I'm looking at Mike's butt and getting Saturday night feelings for him in my shorts.

Then Kirk starts. "What do you and Mike do in bed?"

"Did he tell you to ask me that?" I say.

He looks at me kind of stunned. "No, man, are you kidding?"

"How do you know we do anything?" I say.

"I can hear you," he says.

"Why do you want to know?" I say, aware that I'm fielding questions with questions and sooner or later I'll run out.

He shrugs. "I just do."

I consider whether this subject is any of his business. "It's personal," I say finally.

He's quiet for a while. Then the engine of the Ranchero turns over and the headlights pop on, and Mike straightens up. The voices of the two men rise. He'll be coming back inside shortly.

"OK, I just want to know one thing," Kirk says.


"Do you ever feel like, you know, putting his cock in your mouth?"

"Is this about something you did with your friend Rich?"

"No," he says. "But I'd like to."

And before Mike comes back in the house, I tell Kirk what you can say in two minutes about blowjobs.

Later after lights-out, I'm crawling into bed with Mike and reaching my hand in his boxers. "OK, I told him how to suck cock tonight," I say.

"Told him? I want you to show him."

"Aw, Mike, that's asking too much."

"C'mon, you owe me," he says. "Remember who taught you most of what you know."

"I forget," I say. "Some farmer."

— § —

And the subject drops for a couple days, until Kirk and I are bringing in hay bales from the field to stack in the hayloft. We're using Mike's truck, since the Farmall is still rigged up with the cultivator, and anyway the hay wagon has a flat.

The morning is getting hot before the sun is even over the tree tops. Hay bales are heavy any day, so it's hot and sweaty work. We've got our shirts off, and I can already feel sharp little alfalfa leaves working down the back of my shorts.

Kirk is driving the pickup from bale to bale, and I'm walking along behind, lifting them one by one onto the tailgate, then hopping up to set them in place. It's work that's supposed to build muscle; on me it seems to have no effect.

Riding back to the barn, my back is wet against the vinyl seat, my legs damp in my jeans. I'm telling Kirk to take it easy and look out for gopher holes. I'm thinking the load is way too heavy for the truck, and I'm afraid we'll snap an axle.

"I've been thinking about what you said the other night," Kirk says.

Here it comes, I think. "About?"

"You know -- sucking." The word is still awkward coming from him. "Do you suppose you could just show me?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I can't suck myself," I say.

I can tell the possibility of this has never occurred to him. Then he says, "No, I was thinking about you maybe doing it to me."

Now, I know what you're thinking. The boy's legal; he's cute (at least in your mind's eye); he's willing. What's the problem? Well, think about it. I live with Kirk; I'm subjected daily to his annoying habits. I know his idea of fun, which includes pastimes that involve peanut butter and family pets. None of this makes him very appealing.

"Please," he begs. "I just want to know how to do it right when Rich is here."

I sigh. "Let me think about it," I say. "Let's drop it for now, OK?"

He beams, like I've already agreed, and starts bearing down on the accelerator.

"Slow down, dammit," I say.

— § —

We get the last load in, and it's mid-afternoon by now. The heat is intense, and we just leave the pickup under the open loft door to go inside for a cold pop. Kirk is eyeing the pool and shucking off his jeans to go for a dip. His butt, where the sun doesn't shine, is pale as it must have been the day he was born. Paler, maybe.

When he comes back a while later, I'm still in the kitchen chair where he left me, feeling kind of pole-axed. "I thought you were coming in," he says, standing in front of me naked and still dripping wet.

"Take my boots off for me," I say. "And maybe I will."

He ignores this. "Did you decide yet?" he says, and takes a step closer.

I look up at him. "OK, I've decided," I say. "But if we do this, we're doing it my way."

"Damn, let's do it now," he says, all excited and shoving his cock in my face.

"Not so fast," I say. "Just sit down and listen." He backs off and sets his wet butt on the edge of a chair. And I try to explain something I think he should know about. And what I tell him means introducing him to a new concept: foreplay.

I pull my chair up to his, and we sit knee to knee. "It's not a race to see how fast you can shoot your wad," I say, touching my fingertips to his knees. Then I softly rake my fingernails along his thighs. His cock leaps straight up. I do it again. He sinks backward in the chair, his eyes falling shut.

Then I reach down and do the same to his wet calves, slowly down, then up, then down. I lift one leg so his foot is on my chair, between my knees, and I stroke the back of his thigh, letting my fingers slip a little into his crack. I'm leaning my chest against his leg, and I can feel him tense up with surprise and then let go.

With one hand I hold his knee and plant my lips on the inside of it. Then I move a little way and do it again. I keep this up, slowly, until I'm almost to his crotch. Then I pause, watching his face. His eyes are closed, but I can tell he's on alert; his body is still as one of the barn cats ready to pounce on a mouse. His breaths are shallow, his dick up hard and flat against his belly.

I do the other leg.

Now I pull a little closer, setting his feet down on the floor, and putting his knees between my thighs. With my hands on his chest, I get the rhythm of his breathing. Then with my fingertips, I stroke his ribs, dipping down to brush against his nest of pubic hair. Next I trace big, slow circles on his chest. I'd trace one finger down and around his belly button, but the end of his long dick is already pressed down over it.

I pause, letting him take that all in. I take off my straw hat, set it on the table, and finish off the last swallow of my pop.

I lean forward now and touch one of his nipples with my tongue. He sucks in a little jerk of breath. Weren't quite ready for that move, were you, I'm thinking. I close my lips around his nipple and pull it against my teeth. Another quick breath. Then I do the other nipple.

With my mouth still on him, I stroke my fingers again from his knees up along his thighs, and this time I touch his balls, gliding over them and then slowly along the length of his dick. A little more than half way up, he takes a sudden deep breath, and goes, "Awwwwwwwwww..." His whole body goes stiff, jolting his chair back, and with his cum shooting against my chest, I feel him flipping over backward, legs flying, and a split second later cracking his head on the floor with a sharp thud.

"Shit," I'm saying, jumping up. "Are you OK?"

I'm kneeling beside him, and his eyes are blinking open and shut. He's already holding the back of his head. "Awwwwwwwwww...," he says again. His knees are still in the air, and little spurts of cum are still dribbling from his dick and onto his stomach.

"Holy crow," he starts saying. Over and over.

I gather that he's somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Or feeling both at the same time. I touch the back of his head, and there's the beginnings of a goose egg. So I go to the refrigerator for ice.

He's mumbling something now I can't make out. I bend over him. "What are you saying?" I ask him.

"Can--" He takes a breath. "Can we do that again?"

I help him upright and back into the chair. I tell him to hold the ice against the back of his head until the swelling goes down. Then I go for a towel to wipe both of us off.

Before I go back out to the barn, I check to see he's all right, which he is. Rusty is looking in through the screen door, concerned.

"Don't worry about him," I say, heading outside. "He just had a little fall off the merry-go-round."

Back in the pickup, I'm tossing bales into the hayloft, easy enough while I have the whole stack to stand on, but taking more effort as I get down to the bed of the truck, and finally every last bit of muscle I don't have for the last ones. After each half dozen bales, I go into the barn, climb up the ladder to the loft, and drag them further inside to stack up against a far wall -- Kirk's job.

The heat outside is fierce; inside it is stifling. Sweat is running off my back and into my levi's. They slip down, and I have to keep pulling them up. I get my shirt from the cab of the truck and wipe my face and my eyes. There's a water jug on the floor, and I pop off the cap to drink from the spout. It's warm, but wet.

I swear, just when I'm nearly done, I look out the hayloft door and see Kirk finally coming from the house. He's got on his jeans and boots and his straw hat, ready again for work.

You timed that about right, I want to say, but I don't. "You gonna be OK?" I ask.

He nods and looks up at me, like he's just come back from another planet. Then he's up the ladder and working beside me, pulling the last bales across the floor.

"We really didn't get to the sucking part," I say when we're done. "Still want to try that?"

He nods.

"OK," I say, "But this time, I want you to tell me when you think you're going to come. Then I'll stop, so that doesn't happen again."

He nods.

I take him to a cool spot in the shade, out behind the barn, where there are two old mulberry trees and beyond them what used to be a vegetable garden, all overgrown now, with morning glories crawling and blooming like crazy all over a chicken-wire fence.

Somehow and for some reason long forgotten, here in the weeds is the backseat from an old car. I like to think it has all kinds of stories to tell, but then that's the way my mind works.

And I can't help wondering what details you're fixing on here -- that old back seat, the weeds, the morning glories, the heat, the sweat in my levi's, or Kirk's fly which I'm now unzipping. For my part, I'm mostly just aware that I'm doing all this for Mike. And I hope to heck he's happy.

I'm pulling down Kirk's wranglers a bit. "Now sit and watch me," I say, taking off my hat. "And remember what I told you."

"OK," he says. I think it's the first thing he's said since he came from the house.

I get down between his knees, lean forward, and put my tongue to the end of his dick. I taste a bit of either pre-cum or after-cum; it's hard to tell. This sends his dick into motion. I let it pump up on its own and move in to touch my tongue to his balls.

I'm watching him, and I can tell whatever he thought this was going to be like, it's already way different. Then again, first times are like that, so I'm not telling you something you don't already know. At least I hope not.

I let him feel what it's like to have his balls rolling around in someone else's warm, wet mouth. Not having them hit, jabbed, squeezed, or kicked, which is probably about the extent of their contact with other males up till now.

After a fugue and variations on that part of his anatomy, I begin licking upwards from the base of his cock, which is flat up against his belly again. Get a picture of an escaped convict hugging the wall for dear life while search lights from the guard tower swoop all around him.

I get about as far as I did before with my fingers, and he's gasping, "I'm coming; I'm coming!"

His hand socks me in the side of the face as he grabs for his dick, but it's too late. He's shooting gobs of cum again, over his chest and shoulders.

I sit back with my butt on my boots thinking, what part of this doesn't he get? "We're supposed to stop before you do that," I say.

"I know, I know," he's saying. His eyes are still tight shut, and he has a death grip on his dick, spurts of cum now sliding down over his fingers. Then he leans back and seems to slip into a kind of coma.

So while he recovers, I sit down on the seat beside him, stretch out my legs into the weeds, study the bright, blue sky, and get to thinking. As one does.

When you're with someone else like this, you can find yourself wishing for the company of the one who really trips your trigger. And so it is that my thoughts turn to Mike. I wish he was here, looking up at this same sky, speculating on the shapes of passing clouds, whether the wind has shifted since morning, and the prospects for rain, hail, or tornado weather.

And somewhere in the middle of one of his sentences, me reaching over to tickle his balls till he laughs, then seeing if I've got him in the mood to lie back and let me have my way with him. Lost in this reverie, and getting the proverbial rise in my levi's, I guess I drift off, too.

Pretty soon Kirk is nudging me in the shoulder, ready to go once more. And this time we have something like success.

I continue where I left off, making progress little by little; he's so hard again I have to pry his dick away from his belly. It takes at least five near-misses, stopping for breathers each time while he wills himself back from shooting his load. For a while I think we're not going to get past slipping my mouth over the head of his cock. "Stop, stop!" he gasps, grabbing me by the ears.

Eventually, I'm able to show him, very slowly, how to do the deed itself, teeth apart, lips together, tongue in motion. I decide not to show off and pretend that it's easy to go all the way down on him. He can work that out for himself. All in good time.

Finally he can't hang on any longer. He's ramming his shoulders into the seat behind him, digging his fingers into my scalp, and pushing his cock as deep into my mouth as I'll let him go. And then I'm getting the taste of his warm cum gushing out over my tongue.

I swallow enough of it so I can tell him something. "A nice thing you can do now is this," I say. Then, still holding him with one hand between his legs, I kiss him on the mouth. His eyes are closed, so this takes him by surprise. I press my tongue between his lips, and I let him taste his own cum.

Then I sit down beside him, take him in my arms, and rock him like a baby. He goes limp as a stunned rabbit. I hold him like this while the late afternoon shadows creep across the morning glories, and finally there's the sound of a car with a bad muffler pulling onto the place. I hear Rusty bark once, the little woof he makes when he's happy about something.

"Sounds like your uncle Mike's home," I say.

Kirk peels away from me, his skin sticky from sweat and cum, and gets to his feet, hiking up his wranglers over his bare butt and stuffing his dick into his shorts.

We walk together back to the barn, my arm across his shoulders. "There's more, you know," I tell him. "Ever hear of doing a sixty-nine?"

"Yeah?" he says. I can tell he doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about.

"Remind me to tell you about that sometime."


© 2003 Rock Lane Cooper