Date: Mon, 16 Mar 2009 17:51:56 -0700 (PDT)
From: Gunter Ragen <gruntraq@yahoo.com>
Subject: Skinhead Construction 1

When I was in my 20's I did a lot of strange shit. I lost my drivers
license because of a DUI and so I rode my bike a lot to get around. It kept
me fit and gave the chance to see things more clearly in my daily grind.
That was the "looking at the bright side" of it, but beyond that not having
the freedom to drive just sucked.

Between my job and my apartment was a large construction site where a
subdivision of new houses were getting built. I made a habit of cruising
through on my way to and from work to cop some views of the hot dudes that
crawled over the site like army ants. It always gave me a hard on.

In the summer the guys had their shirts off and sweating it by 8:00am. The
framers and the roofers were the best looking studs in their leather boots,
ragged jeans, strapped in their tool belts and giving off that American
blue collar vibe. They had great tans and they were all pretty damn fit.

It became a ritual of mine in the afternoons to stop on the way home, park
the bike and take a walk through the unfinished houses in search of sweaty
smelly clothes left behind. Every so often I would come across a T-shirt or
tank top, once even a set of discarded work gloves. Anything that would
give me a smell and taste of these raunchy studs to get me off was a
prize. Sick and twisted huh?

In the afternoons the site was almost vacant except for the stray carpenter
as most of the crews left out by 3 or 4 o'clock. So it was not uncommon for
me to pull out a doobie and spark up, sniff on some sweaty guys dirty
T-shirt and whip it out right there in someone's future bathroom and drop a
load on their sub-floor.

That is exactly what I had set out do this one afternoon. It was hotter
than hell, probably 105. I had cruised though the site and saw few
workers. They mostly didn't care about what you were up to, but I always
made sure I knew where they all were before I started looking for a place
to do my business.

I finally found a few houses that had been framed and lathed. This meant
the tar paper and insulation board had nailed up to the walls, offering me
dark and private places to stay out of sight. I walked around a bit in and
out of them until I found what I was after. There laying like a rag on a
stack of drywall was a red flannel button up shirt. I grabbed it and put it
up to my face, inhaling deeply to see what it smelled like. Not bad, just a
hint of cologne, some sour man musk and cigarettes. It wasn't super raunchy
but smelled like a man to be sure. Score.

Up the stairs I went and found a darkened master closet in the front of the
house. I peered carefully out the window opening while rubbing my cock
through my jeans to see if anyone was around. All I saw was a truck 3
houses down with a silohuette of a dude on his cell phone through a dirty
window. He was probably getting ready to leave I assumed. They always yak
on their cellphone before heading off.

I took another deep whiff of the shirt's arm pits and rubbed myself some
more. Then I pulled out my pack of cigarettes where I had a joint stashed
and sparked it up. I sniffed the shirt and rubbed myself some more as I
drew in the smoke of the mean evil green.

I was just getting ready to unzip my Levis and start having at it when I
made one more recon out the small window to check for anyone. When I saw
the truck, nobody was in it. My stoned paranoia kicked in and my heart
raced. "Where did he go?" Just as I was about to look around some more I
heard boots scuffing behind me on the plywood floor.

"What are you doing here?" I heard a deep voice ask with a tinge of
territorial gruffness. I instinctively dropped the flannel shirt to the
floor and whipped around. A rough shaven bald headed man about 40 years old
stood in the doorway to the walk in closet glaring at me with an angry
sneer.

He was about 5'-10 with a thick reddish brown goatee and low side chops on
his pockmarked face. H looked like a mix of an ex-con biker and a skinhead.
He was wearing a pair of faded 501's, worn leather work boots and a blue
grey T-shirt with some logo that had long faded to peeling shades. As I
made a quick once over of his thick muscled arms I noticed the wet sweat
soaked armpits of his shirt. Over the smell of the pot smoke hanging in the
air I could smell his body odor fill the room.

"Uhh, I was just toking on a joint", I stammered. "I wasn't messing with
anything, I'll be on my way". He just stood there staring at me for a
second. I felt the heat of my joint burning away between my finger tips as
he looked me over and sized me up. He then walked toward me and motioned to
the joint.

I lifted it up and offered it to him. He took it from me and took a long
deep toke. His ex-con persona with the bright orange cherry glowing between
his fingertips gave my cock a twitch. As he inhaled I caught a glimpse of
his thick muscled legs in those jeans and the way his tool belt hung over
his bubble thighs and framed his packed crotch. Damn I bet he is hung.

He handed the joint back to me, blew out the smoke and coughed. "That's
some strong shit" he said clutching his chest. I relaxed a bit now and
began taking another hit. "You ought to be careful hanging around here." he
said authoritatively. "You might get busted for trespassing if the security
guys caught you after hours. I'm the site superintendent. I've seen you
around before so you're cool with me, but you really should be more
careful."

"I'm sorry." I said. "It's just on my way home and it's a convenient place
to stop off." We stood there for a moment, him looking at me with that
curious and suspicious face when his bushy brown brows furrowed. "So what
are you really doing up here?" he asked with a more serious tone.  "Like
what were you doing with my shirt there?"

I had no answer for his question as I looked down to the floor at the red
flannel shirt covered with sawdust and then back up at him. The look of
guilt on my face must have given me away. "Can I have it please?" he asked
curtly, glaring at me like some kind of thief. I bent down and grabbed it,
quickly offering it to him with a bit of embarrassment.  My heart raced
again in panic. Fuck, was I going to get pounded now?

He just squinted at me and rubbed his thick bushy goatee for a second. Then
he shook his head back and forth and gave me a stern look of suspicion.
"See you around.", he said with a slight smirk. He then turned and walked
out of the room and down the stairs.

I just stood there in a moment of nervous stoned stupor as I heard him get
in his truck and drive away. What the fuck was that? I wasn't sure if he
was going to beat the fuck out of me or whip out his cock. Whatever. I
decided that was close enough and headed for home to get some grub.

Comments welcome gruntraq@yahoo.com