Patrick and John 7

Of course, no way has John sent Fourteen off into the parking lot and down the road by himself. Shoeless Joes, the pair of them step cautiously along, mindful of glass. It is so late now, it’s early.

Fourteen is giddy now, half in that bed (like his cock was half in when it exploded). It is a new thing. He gives John a playful shoulder shove. “Oh my God, she actually touched my dick!” A grab at John’s shirtsleeve, “My balls, she squeezed my balls!” Fourteen pirouettes, clutching his head, mind blown. Gay is set aside, because… a Fourteen just has to stick it somewhere and cum. It is Wild Planet Salmon spawning shit.

“She took a shine to you, no doubt.” John answers. The boy’s fuck has shit-fanned Patrick’s crafted after. That was splattered all over his friend’s face in ugly blotches.

“No doubt,” Fourteen chokes. He looks for approval in John’s tone, his hooded eyes, how close he walks beside the self assured bricklayer. John and Patrick are not gay, not liking him gay. That was what Patrick says (with emphasis). So this is good, right? Fourteen hard over a girl. Out of left field maybe, though, sometimes when I look, it’s possible. Never a sickening thought, really. You can imagine the action.  The two men won’t touch his cock, too gay. “It felt good, being on top, if you know what I mean.” He confesses, quick glance at John, still needing his approval.

 “I’ll have to fuck you when she is gone.” It’s a hard, Saturday Night Special, matter of fact remark.

“Why,” Fourteen stops to make him look. “You don’t like me.” John allows that he is not into Fourteen and his cusp of manhood wrong plumbing nonsense. “Then why?”

John looks down the road to Hershey and somewhere past. “I owe Patrick that much.”

Fourteen searches Johns meaning, working it out. “So he can replay the memory of what you boys did in prison?”

“Not this time, Fourteen.” John looks for the stars, but there is only a heavy opacity reflecting back the small city with a dull metallic sheen. The wide street is empty except for the odd vehicle mysteriously waiting. It’s a trashy flickering streetlight side of town. The rumpled boy beside him is rubbing the gritty sidewalk with his big toe.

This fuck-the-kid talk is a John-hard slam to the solar plexus. It pricks a fragile now-bubble of joy. Strutting into the night, post coitus, Fourteen is the man. A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, dad says. What would be the harm? This just has to be told. Jeremy Gates spent endless before-hours spinning Byzantine plots to coax a kiss from this one or other (but never think of Shane, nope). Shoot the hormonal shit with Shane, half hard. Wanting those baseball games with hot classmates, imagining parent umpires blind to the stolen bases. All that dreaming, and Fourteen slid into hetero home base. No chance he keeps that secret. Jeramy Gates is a man: respect!

John owes Patrick? Fourteen gets it suddenly. John fucked with Patrick’s after-games. He let Fourteen’s virginity slip (straight) away. John let the needle skipped across the well-played vinyl to a different track. Patrick will be pissed. Fourteen steps close to John. There should be a sleepy cafe, talk over coffee, bacon, eggs, and ham. “You should let him go John. I’m not his first, am I? John, Patrick is bat shit crazy.”

John boils over. He goes shirt grabbing Taliban on Fourteen. A cold backhand swells the boy’s lower lip, another slap rings Fourteen’s bell and starts hot black blood dripping down his lip. “Patrick is a survivor.” Glint of the missing bobcat in the corner of Fourteen’s eye, he is staring up into John’s face. John glances around the empty street.

The Saturday Night Special is in his hand. Left hand slides around Fourteen’s slender neck to gently cup his head. Then fingers lock on the nap of Fourteen’s hair. They are in each other’s faces now with the gun finding its way back to the blood smeared, tearless face. The back of John’s finger dabs at the mess he has made. Gun oil and sex on Fourteen’s nose and lip. “Are we still cool?”

“Way cool.” Fourteen replies bone dry, unrepentant. “Patrick is bat shit crazy. You still going to fuck me when she’s gone?”

“Fuck you long and hard, I owe it to Patrick, bitch boy.” Pinched between the warm palm on his neck and the steel, Fourteen cannot decide if he won the argument or not. Truth, John won’t leave Patrick, so the three of them will carry on. The gun drops away first.

They walk on in silence till they reach the end of the block. About face, pace back the other way until they reach the motel parking lot. They stand swatting mosquitoes until Alice stumbles out with fresh memories of two and a half men to ponder for when she next serves drinks. John knows he has made a self destructive mistake, not the first by any means. The boy got too in-your-face (bed) with a witness. They need to go, go, go. Google their way to Gifford Pinchot State Park, sanitize this latest cluster fuck, then they can cruise the Bronco into Hershey clean.

Patrick is on his third beer. He stands with his satiated cock peering down into Fourteen’s fish-out-of-water open mouth. Drop the lure right there and see if the guppy will bite. Fourteen sees Patrick-heavy, more than just suggestive. He is pussy to the man, not cocksucker. Drying blood and the telltale bruising on the boy’s lip tell Patrick there has been a fight on the street. John is punishing Fourteen’s sass, grinding this fresh bitch boy. Take it faggot. Patrick wants John to ass-slap the straight-fuck memory right out of the little pussy. Fourteen’s fingers clamp onto the thick wrists. John’s fingers squeeze Fourteen’s cowboy slim hips, riding the boy hard.

The pair were barely in the door before Fourteen’s shirt was off. “We have to go now.” John says, but instead he is shaking Fourteen ragdoll, fighting the shirt. John Superman-splits it away in frustration. Two rough jerks strip the shreds free. Sassy straight arms John’s chest, then gets flipped onto the crumpled bedding. Fourteen’s cheeks flare.

“We can stay the night. I need a shower.”

“No, pack your shit. It is time to go.” John stood there at the end of the bed, eyes only for the boy. He had the look he gets when Patrick is done with a boy. Alice was the final act in this choreographed tragedy, both men know it. John looked like he is going to end Fourteen.

“Take it easy. I’ve got this covered, remember?” Patrick reminded John. That prompts a curt nod, but John’s eyes were on Fourteen backed shirtless against the headboard. John walks toward Fourteen. Fourteen twists to meet him. John tips him back so pants slide off slender hips for the last rape. Fourteen reaches for John’s fly and gets a fresh slap. “Save the face.” Patrick cautioned. He watched the nakedness splayed helpless on the bed. The connection is lost. The now movements of lifted hips, fingers guiding cock into soft flesh, are just whatever. Fourteen is fading in Patrick’s mind back to the anonymous flash of tangerine caught in the midway bustle. He is just a product now. He had a name, what was it?

Fourteen is remembering blood warm velvety muscle convulsing around his prick. He wonders if that is what John feels now thrusting into his arching body. John bends his legs back Kama Sutra. Deep thrusts sting-vibrate his body. Fourteen ignores Patrick’s limp dick invitation. He sees it now, just beyond the creases of his tight torso. Long John sliding molten chocolate from within, driving back down, branding him deep. Fourteen is kidnaped on the possibilities of Patrick and John’s dicks, sliding into home base. No one understands, he thinks-feels-knows-needs. Keep on sliding into home base!

It comes to Fourteen, riding John’s cock-fire-anger, that he is still on the storm-brewed, sultry August midway. He is on the best ride listening to the rolling thunder draw the Midwest deluge down upon him. Fourteen is wet on his own cum and sweat, letting these trickster carnies fleece him blind, just as they hope to fleece his parents (when they get around to it). Bring it on! Fourteen walked into that August fair knowing the games were rigged against him, not really caring. At 11:30 he walked out with his friends satisfied. Fourteen has fool’s confidence that this trip through the Patrick-horror-house of mirrors, thrills and chills will spit him back into the sultry August street just short of his quiet home. This is the optimism that Patrick can’t shake out of Fourteen. Two and a half men in a seedy hotel room, they all have their different afters. Fourteen’s will end on a quiet Ohio street. He is sure of it.

Patrick smirks as John pulls out, rolls the bitch boy onto his knees and goes back in. “No!” Fourteen gasps, flinch-faced in surprise. It is what Patrick wants-expects. Fourteen is a commodity now, traded on the market of men’s desire. “Maybe three more years, you little bitch. Can you count the fucks ahead?” He sees sweat wick up the heavy bangs trailing into the boy’s hooded eyes. “The other boys are laughing at you Fourteen. They know what you are as you walk with them. You laugh at their jokes, maybe try a few jokes of your own, see if they laugh back. You are not their friend. You know they keep you around for the fucks.” Patrick stoops down, giving Fourteen the compassion and grief he never felt was offered him. Patrick would not see Fourteen’s after to the end, but he could hear the inevitable in the boy’s soft guttural cries, whispered “no’s” and sobbing curses as John uses him. “You can’t escape it Fourteen. It's going to be always with you now. I needed you to understand this. You understand me now. Sorry, but someone has to.”

Fourteen is tired now. He has felt the clouds and rain three times this day and the Yin flood is lifting the Yang root once again. Three years? In Hershey, or will they always be on the road to somewhere new? If he reaches just past his stinging prick, thumb tracing the thread along his taint, he can let his fingertips feel John’s busy shaft. Fourteen’s mouth gapes open with a ragged cry as John teases out his fourth gut-wrenching orgasm. Cum coats Fourteen’s forearm. “Oh fuck,” Fourteen moans into the ratty bed cover. John keeps sliding into home base, but Fourteen scored.