by Funtails

Sunday mornings he comes to me.

The tin fence clangs as he jumps over with the careless ease only an eleven-year-old has. I cover my head with the pillow, the demons of last night's tequila dancing with brick boots on the glass dome of my skull.

I hear excited dog whimpers. El Bastardo is the meanest, toughest junkyard dog in all of South Texas. Except for when the boy strokes his ragged neck. Kisses his nose. Tickles his belly.

Even with careful, soft steps, the boy's always-polished shoes seem to thump through my trailer-home like a parade drum. The rumblings of the church next door come with him, the unkind christians singing amplified hymns that persecute my tender ears.

Even under the pillow, I smell the smoke-tinged aromas as he spends ten carefully timed minutes in the kitchen. He is an expert at breakfast and knows where every tool and ingredient is.

Coming into my room, he fiddles with the alarm-clock radio on the nightstand. Then he is sliding into bed with me, nose to nose, knee to knee. I groan and keep my eyes shut, unwilling to battle the light. The boy flips the covers over us, despite the heat. In the twilight underneath, I half-open one eye and smile at him. He smiles back, like the dawn sun peeking under a cloud.

My heart is too weak for his light. I look away, to his starched, white shirt, its long sleeves rolled up from cooking. I know his suit jacket, his dark-blue tie and his gold Seiko are back in the kitchen. Below my furry pot belly, I'm wearing only boxers tented by a piss hard-on.

I stroke his small shoulders, nodding my surrender; it is indeed time to get up. When I kick the covers off the bottom of the bed, I face a dual assault of daylight and Preacher Jim's screaming Hallelujah's.

I grunt my displeasure and blink my eyes open.

He can tell that I'm annoyed at his father. His smile dims and I feel like shit. There was no need to remind him of the overbearing asshole on stage next door.

I pull him close and kiss the tip of his nose: "I'm sorry," in our secret language. His smile is back like an overloaded lightbulb. He reaches up and strokes the half-week of stubble on my face, more affection than I've gotten from anyone else since childhood. I entwine my fingers in his and kiss the back of his hand. My eyes closed, I breathe in deeply and press my cheek to his hand.

When I open my eyes he is still smiling, now with a touch of amusement at how theatrical I can be. He is like a billboard image of an anglo boy: Even, white teeth; neatly-parted, silver-blond hair; and green eyes that shimmer like the Alaska night sky.

I take a special joy in messing up his soft hair. I play with the strands in my fingers and they refuse to get back into formation. He responds by sliding his hand to my naked chest. I pop the buttons on his shirt down the line of his flat belly. He gets up, standing on the floor to make my work easier. His father would be angry if his shirt got wrinkled. The boy scowls as thoughts of the preacher refuse to let us be. His father's voice is loud enough from next door that I can make out the important words: 'Hellfire,' 'fornicators,' 'feminists,' 'faggots,'eternity'. Sitting, I unbuckle his belt while he takes the shirt off. He steps carefully out of the pants and briefs and rests the clothes on the nearby chair back.

Naked, he leaps onto my lap with a laugh. My overnight bladder protests and I grimace. The boy realizes my need to pee and bites his lip for a second or two. I start to speak, but the look on his face stops me. He kneels on the floor between my thighs. This is a part of our intimacy I have had to learn to be comfortable with. He bows and takes half my cock into his mouth. I struggle to release the fluid he wants. He massages gently behind my balls and triggers my flow. My piss is warm as it pours through me into his gulping mouth and I sigh as the tension eases out of my spine. He is working hard to drink me down, his eyes focused and determined just like the first time he asked me to do this.

He does not like the taste. There isn't any physical pleasure in this for him from the looks of it. I cannot help but think that he has come to equate being dirty with escape from the walls of his parents' too-pure world. And few things are dirtier than drinking piss from a hung-over scrap dealer in his broken-down trailer. When I am done, he taps the shaft empty and just as he lets my cock out of his mouth, I see his eyes glance to the doorway through which his father's sermon rumbles and defiance flashes through his smile.

His duty fulfilled, he kisses my hairy thighs, then that ticklish spot where my leg joins my crotch. My ass clenches and I squirm. He knows how I get when he touches me there. He provokes me more, running a finger along the left side while he kisses the right. I groan. He keeps tracing his fingertip on my special spot as he kisses his way up to the navel of my round belly. I stroke his hair as he comes up, eventually kissing his way to my left nipple. I hold him in place as he slobbers on the erect tit, slurping and almost chewing it. Then it is the right that gets to feel the suction of his sweet lips and that passionate tongue.

Finally, he's sucking on my neck and collarbone. He's quite deliberately marking me. The hickeys from last week haven't faded all the way yet. He's practically standing now, and I grasp his firm, smooth buns. With some strain, I lift him into my lap, so that he kneels on either side of my hips. We are almost equal height like this, but we are not face-to-face. He is avoiding my eyes. With one hand I hold his chin and kiss him. He pulls back just a bit at first touch and I know he is trying to spare me the taste of my pee. I press on and kiss him anyway. Maybe if I do this a million more times he'll see that I could never find him dirty.

Would that be a good thing? Maybe he really wants me to call him a filthy little bitch? Maybe he wants me to condemn him as a deviant, if only to prove that he has succeeded in escaping his parents' limits. Or maybe he thinks that he's giving me what men expect? Or maybe he's a genuinely kinky kid who gets off on being a piglet?

In the end, I can only be honest with him. He is beautiful. He is good—too good for this world.

The sharp bitterness in his mouth barely registers for me next to the knowledge that I'm joined with him. Like always, he gets lost in the kissing, unlearning his sense of restraint and going after me, taking his pleasure in me with an energetic tongue and wet, searching lips. I can barely keep up, growing more and more aroused and awake as he works me over.

When my cock is as stiff as a crowbar, it sways, tapping at the cleft of his ass. He grabs it, settling back to ready the end against his hole. The pressure on my cock's tip makes me want to ram into him, but this is his show. Besides, I cannot risk the headache I'd get from moving about too much.

He wants me in him. His butt was already lubed this morning when he sat in the family car to come to church. With a deep breath, he presses down, his back arching. I pop into his entryway with a burst of pleasure. It's like the neck of my cock is caught in a trap as his anal ring squeezes.

Next door, the choir is getting into the meat of 'Let the World Rejoice,' clapping and yelling out to Jesus.

Keeping his weight on his knees, the boy slides back, arms around my neck. He is slippery inside. Tight, wet, warmth descends along my shaft in stages until he is seated on my cock, which stands erect in his lovely chute.

He starts gently riding me. The jostling is too much for my brain and I drop back onto my elbows for support. He keeps a steady, controlled motion. His hands on my chest press me down, so I am flat on my back. In this position we cannot kiss, especially with my big belly in the way. He moves to all fours, forearms down, like a little jockey holding the reins. The faraway clapping of the choir is curiously in time with his riding of me.

I don't even try to thrust up at him. I just hold still as he works his ass along me. The feel of his tight hole is stiffening all my muscles. My legs no longer hang off the edge of the bed, but are hovering eight inches from the floor. I hold his now rumpled hair in my hands, gently pulling him to my chest. He goes after my nipples again.

I start to breathe heavily and he backs off, quickly switching around, his butt in my face. He wants me to come in his mouth.

Or maybe not. He lowers his stiff, happy penis to my lips and I take it eagerly. He's on the verge himself and he leaves me alone as I bring him off. He starts to hump my face and I hold his waist to keep him steady. He trembles and heaves himself into my mouth for half a minute.

Afterward, he lies prone across my belly, his face against my swollen manhood and his breath on my balls. That's enough to set me off. He stops trying to recover his breath and snaps his lips over the spurting head of my cock, bearing down hard with his lips and supercharging my orgasm, making my hips rise off the bed in ecstasy. I leave finger marks in his pale thighs as I grip them, shooting again and again into his sucking mouth until I have nothing left to give. He keeps suckling even as I go semi-soft.

El Bastardo is whimpering from the trailer door. Sunday morning is his time too and he knows it. I put two fingers to my mouth and whistle him permission to enter. He scampers into the bedroom and starts yipping and dancing around as the boy climbs off me and we sit up. I kick the misbehaving dog in the rump. The boy looks sharply at me. I roll my eyes and lie back on my pillow. Though the dog is quiet now, his excitement is still visible in his wagging tail as he climbs into bed with us. The dog is licking the boy's face and the boy isn't even trying to pull away. He just giggles.

I look around the room: My overalls thrown on the foot of the bed; half a bottle of no-name tequila on the nightstand; three cracks in the dresser mirror. Heaven could look like this and still be heaven if the boy were there.

He and the dog have calmed down. My cock is totally deflated now. No one is thinking of sex. Soon, the three of us are lying like spoons in a drawer. The boy rubs the dog's belly and nuzzles his neck. I do the same to the boy.

Eventually, the rubbing solidifies into holding. We do not sleep. We do not even doze. The blinking red lights on the clock and the escalating voice of his father make us desperate to feel the fullness of each second.

The boy turns on the TV, the volume low, to break up Preacher Jim's voice. There's an old movie on. I've seen it one time before...I think I sat through it twice. It starred Gregory Peck. He was shot down by a hungry kid trying to make a name for himself. The townspeople wanted to string that kid up by the neck as the dying gunfighter lay in the sun and gasped for his last breath.

"Turn him loose. Let him go. Let him say he outdrew me, fair and square. I want him to feel what it's like to every moment face his death."

Evil passing from one generation to the next.

Reflexively, I hold the boy closer.

Henry Porter tried to keep my dark inheritance from me, to eat all the sin of his life and let me be free of it. From the time my mother and I went to live with him in his Amarillo wrecking lot, he tried to show me another path.

He failed. Maybe I was too messed up before I met him. Maybe he didn't have the right answers. Maybe he didn't have enough time before justice caught up with him, turning me and my mother loose on the road back to Brownsville. Today, I live in another scrap yard, stealing, gambling and fighting my way to my next prison stint.

You know, it's funny how things never turn out the way you had them planned. The only thing we knew for sure about Henry Porter is that his name wasn't 'Henry Porter'. I think back to life with my father, a long time ago, long before the stars were torn down: I don't remember who I was or where I was bound.

I stroke the boy's arm.

Strange how people who suffer together have stronger connections than people who are most content. Now, I know he isn't what I had wanted in my life, but he's here, and he's got that bright rhythm in his soul.

His light has changed the dog. At least four teenagers in this neigborhood bear bite marks from El Bastardo, but with the boy he is like a puppy.

Can this boy do what Henry Porter could not? Together, he and I have begun retaking what we lost to the masters of our destiny—like our carefully metered time here. He has stolen his hour from God and his father, even as he struggles to separate the two in his mind. I have stolen my hour from a demon named Legacy.

The time goes too fast, but I drink in the feel of the boy, the presence of him, pretending I don't see when the clock's numbers tick over every minute. He is warm and silky smooth against my chest. All his dimensions seem designed to fit just right inside my arms. His heart beats cheerfully under my palm, signalling his potential for a long life of happiness even as it ticks off the unstoppable passing of time. I'm hard again, my cock comfortably resting along the cleft of his ass, satisfied to slowly throb, like a furnace warming us both. Our legs are tangled together. That soft blond hair is right under my nose, smelling like apples.

The alarm signals 'time' and the radio starts up.

I live my life like there's no tomorrow

and all I've got, I had to steal.

Least I don't need to beg or borrow.

Yes, I'm livin' at a pace that kills,

Runnin' with the Devil!

I hit 'snooze' and shove the dog out of bed. He trots away with an angry growl. I guess the old El Bastardo lives on in there still. Over in the church, Preacher Jim is hitting this week's sermon high points, with assistance from the choir.

The boy presses back into me, our skin touching as much as possible. My ready cock is stirring, excited by all the motion. All of the boy is so warm—feverish even. He's twisting like a lazy cat against me now.

I know what he wants. I try to keep him still, my hand still covering his heart. As we continue to spoon, I rub against him like slow waves breaking on the beach. He angles his top leg, opening the way for me. I slip inside easily, all the way, with one gentle slide.

He purrs.

His heartbeat quickens under my hand and we begin. I move slowly, with short thrusts, my arc limited by the bed. The feel of his passage along my cock is slick and intense. He is clenching his muscles inside. Our lack of speed demands balance between strength and control, but the shivery pleasure of his hole has my muscles weak.

Each thrust brings a half-gasp/half-sigh from him at first, but the sounds fall away as we continue making love. I keep my hand still over his pulsing heart, holding him to me and I enter him again and again. The motion never gets fast, but it is urgent. There is a fierce effort to give each other everything with each stroke.

He is sobbing quietly, shoulders shaking. This too I've learned to accept as part of his way. He knows our time today is almost done. He is crying for a life he cannot have. He has seen the Brownsville boys with their Brownsville toys. Skateboards on park rails. Rowboats in ponds. Soccer balls on the beach. R-rated movies to escape the summer heat. He imagines his pale skin too could be just as brown as theirs if he got to wild around bare-chested in the Texas sun.

My eyes are wet too. I want to give him the world. I can give him only myself. I move as fluidly as I can, the boy's ass welcoming me each time I push inside. His crying morphs back to erotic moans as I fuck him. Eventually, the accumulation of feelings is too much for me and the only thing I can do is hold tight while I pour my love into him, his bare chest smooth and heaving under my hand, his heart afire.

I spasm and stiffen in my delirium, back straining, trying to plant myself as deep into him as I can. After a minute, there's nothing left to draw on. I fall back, my softening cock slipping out, but I keep holding him to me. My breath is rapid and erratic. So is the boy's. I keep my grip on him as his heart slows.

The alarm blasts us again.

A woman just gave birth to a prince today and dressed him in scarlet

He'll put the priest in his pocket, put the blade to the heat

Take the motherless children off the street

And place them at the feet of a harlot

I lean over and turn the music off. The boy is looking up at me wistfully. His hair glows like a halo in the late morning brightness. I lean down and kiss him once on the lips. I want more, but there is no time.

The boy's dick is hard as he climbs out of bed. He didn't cum during our last round of lovemaking. I'd like to suck on him until he screams in orgasm, but there is no time.

He walks over to his clothes. I see my cock slime running down his left leg. He'd love to let it dry there before he leaves, so he can feel sticky and dirty as he walks around for the rest of the day. But there is no time.

He pulls a tissue from the front pocket of his pants and cleans himself. With a soldier's precision, he gets dressed. From his back pocket, he pulls a comb and puts the strands of his hair back into order. I feel a chill as he drops that final piece of his mask into place. He rotates left and right for my inspection and after I nod approval he leaves, pausing in the kitchen to take his things before running out the door.

There is no time.

The choir is in the final verse of 'The Race that Long in Darkness sat, have seen a Glorious Light,' the day's last hymn. Through the window I see El Bastardo chase the boy down to the fence, where they clamber over the top of a busted down Ford. The boy disappears over the fence, leaving the barking dog behind.

Breakfast awaits me in the kitchen, the omelette still warm under a metal cover. As I eat, I think of the boy. He'll be at the front of the church soon, shaking hands alongside his father as the customers leave. My cum and piss will be on the boy's tongue. He'll get a dirty thrill out of that I suspect. I feel powerful knowing that I am still touching him sexually across time and distance.

Another Sunday morning done. We seized that time and wrung it dry. But I still want more. And next week, I will have it. And the week after that.

There will be more time.

Every week, until the boy realizes I don't have what he's looking for—that it was inside of himself all along.


Comments welcome. Even if you're reading this in an archive years from now, I'd love to hear what you think.,

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