Men of All Seasons Box Set

by R. W. Clinger

  I came first because as he kept throttling my ass with his pulsing dick, he wrapped his right palm around my cock, and started jarring my dick up and down in quick action. He begged, “Come, Micah…release what you have inside you…I want to see what you have for me.”

  I listened. Why wouldn’t I? Three quick huffs and several hip-thrusts upwards spawned an explosion of ivory ejaculate all over his right hand and my stomach. Animal-like groans echoed within the attic room as thick ebbs of the sticky substance collected against my skin, flooding out of my shaft.

  “Nice,” he whispered above me. “I knew you had it in you. You didn’t let me down.”

  I lay spent on the bed with his dick still lodged inside my body. My chest rose and fell because I was breathless. For a second, I saw three of Tuck Martini instead of one, wavering left and right above me. And vaguely, I heard him whisper, “It’s my turn. Watch me blow my load, guy. You’re going to love it.”

  After a sequence of muscular drives to my rear, Tuck huffing and puffing overtop me, working his dick inside me, he eventually pulled his erection out of my ass, removed the latex covering, and started to jack its excess skin with both fists. His face turned a strawberry red and his cheeks were inflated. Even his eyes rolled back as he continued to manhandle his cock, readying himself to erupt all over me. He grunted like a beast, jarred forward, backward, and flung sweat against me.

  What happened was a surprise for me. Icing-like strings of semen spiraled out of his cock’s head and spattered against my ribs. Juts of the ejaculate emptied from his dick, covering my thighs and balls. And he continued to grunt, until he was bare of his gummy liquid, no longer keeping the substance pent, releasing all of it against me.

  * * * *

  Our torsos were covered, glazed and shiny because of the attic room’s minimal light. The mess stank of a strong bittersweet scent, filling the room. The aroma swirled about our bodies as he dragged fingertips through the pools of thick ejaculate that collected on my stomach.

  He stared at me and listened to me say, “Feed me. Do it, Tuck. Don’t be shy. I like the taste of it.” And he listened, moving the extended tips up to my semi-opened mouth and tucking them inside its narrow fold.

  An hour later we slipped into boxers and climbed out the attic room’s window. He went down the ladder first and I followed behind. Together, laughing and still playful, we fled into the house, knowing that Miss Kitty was away for the afternoon, attending a craft show in Templeton.

  * * * *

  The shower was warm and soothing. We cleaned each other off with a bar of soap, washed our hair, and kissed under the spray. Lovers came to my mind, flitting around there. We’re lovers. I know we are. I feel it. We have a connection that cannot be removed, erased, or broken. Our lives have permanently become entwined…and this is love…this…is…love.

  Chapter 28: Stepping

  October 19, 2015

  I was picked up at approximately at seven in the evening. Carl had a Stetson cowboy hat on, boots, and a silver belt buckle the size of my face. Whilst making our decline from the attic by using his new set of stairs, he asked, “Do you have any idea where I’m taking you?’

  “Not a clue. But if cowboy hats and boots are involved, I’m all for it.”

  He was a gentleman and opened his pickup’s passenger door, spanked my ass as I climbed inside, and said, “How much do you like cowboys?”

  “Cowboys are smoking hot,” I said. “I always wanted to be one when I was a little boy.”

  “Maybe later we can play Cowboys and Indians. What do you say?”

  I was speechless and joked, “My gun’s in the shop getting lubed.”

  He laughed. “I’m thinking of lubing something else, Micah.”

  Fifteen minutes later we ended up on the east side of Erie at a cowboy bar and lounge called Saddles and Steers. The place was a salt-box made out of wooden boards and decorated with numerous saddles. Lanterns hung here and there, and bar stools were made out of wagon wheels.

  There, we enjoyed a steak and potato dinner, beers, and good conversation. We talked about my writing and his carpentry, my mother and his father, Davis, and he told me he liked to tell jokes, although most of them were just corny. After a string of juvenile jokes that were ridiculous, but funny, he said, “I want to step with you. What do you say?”

  “You mean exercise?” I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but he pointed to the dance floor and a bunch of cowboys and cowgirls who were two-stepping. The mix consisted of cowboys dancing with cowboys, girls swinging girls around, and the typical collection of males attached to females. Everyone on the dance floor, a span of wooden barn boards that were nailed down, looked as if they were enjoying themselves, which appealed to me, seeming welcoming.

  * * * *

  Honestly, Carl and I danced half the night away. We drank too much beer (even if I personally enjoyed martinis) and shifted around the dance floor. At first, when we were getting started with the stepping, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but Carl was a great teacher, tangled himself against me, saving me from embarrassment in the country bar.

  Chapter 29: Two Visits

  August 17, 2014

  The Zeus Martini: 5 Parts Honey-flavored Vodka, 1 Part Buffalo Grass Vodka, 1 Teaspoon Lillet Blanc, 1 Pickled Asparagus Spear.

  Frankie’s duplex—she lived in the right side of the unit and her father lived in the left side—was manicured with care and pride, made of brownstone, and showcased hip-high hedges in the front and a cobblestone walkway that branched off to both front doors. Frankie was spry, quite the vixen, and someone important in my life. She liked to wear short skirts, and bright red lipstick. She had a string of boyfriends all at the same time, sexually enjoyed the company of men, and never planned to get married. Everything about her screamed vivid and spontaneous. And no one, not even her father, could hold her down from realizing her dreams, which entailed opening her own catering business called Frankly Eating.

  My visit with her was short and sweet. We sat on her front stoop, drinking lemon iced teas in the shade, watching passersby. Our shoulders rubbed together during the chatter. “I’m seeing three guys at the same time now. It was four, which you’re very much aware,” she said.

  “Who dumped you?”

  She laughed, waved a hand at me, and said, “Sweetheart, Frankie Marchetti doesn’t get dumped. She does the dumping.”

  I knew that, testing her. “Who’d you dump? Was it Rico?”

  Rico Padilla was a total asshole: a drunk, abusive—and into coke. He was bad news all around.

  “You guessed right. I was tired of his bullshit. The sex wasn’t worth it so I got rid of him.”

  “So long to bad baggage. Now you have Mike, Scotty, and Brady.”

  “My three jocks. Just what every young woman needs.”

  I knew that Mike was a professional football player for the Erie Eels and Scotty was a minor league baseball player. Brady Rozelli was a middle-weight boxer, always throwing punches, but at least not at Frankie. Rather, he treated her like an angel, bathing her in gifts and kisses and…

  “What’s going on with the man in your life?” she asked.

  “Tucker Martini?”

  She laughed at his name, reminding me that she liked it. “Yes. The dick you’re riding. Tell me about him. Your pet penis.”

  “My pianist,” I corrected her.

  “That too.”

  We giggled together and spent the next ten minutes discussing my affair with the musician—his likes and dislikes, the life in Cincinnati that he had left behind, and all of the makeup that created his lovable and caring personality.

  When I was finished with my rant, she said, “Micah, I think you’ve found the man of your dreams.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re happy…plus you’re glowing.”

  “So glowing is a good thing?”

  “Always, sweetie. Don’t ever forget that, even if someone sh
itty tells you otherwise.”

  I admitted that the pianist/penis in my life caused me to glow. I was shining bright with happiness because of how the relationship with Tuck was unfolding, seamlessly and without any knots, and hoped that it would continue for years to come.

  Before leaving, Frankie said, “Happiness is sometimes served on a platter. It’s sounds as if you’re eating well, my friend.”

  I was, loving every minute I could with Tuck.

  I was.

  * * * *

  I usually dropped my laundry off at my mother’s on Tuesday afternoons, but I was a little early that week. Her salt-box of a house was on a cul-de-sac just a few blocks away from Miss Kitty’s Tudor. I carried my laundry over in a basket, climbed the three gray and somewhat rotted steps of her front porch, and let myself inside.

  Gloria Berk was napping on the sofa in the living room again, overworked as hotel desk clerk. The overhead fan was on and her gray hair blew a little to the left and then to the right. She had one arm over her eyes and was lightly snoring. Her chest rose and fell with every breath, and the fan twirled, keeping her cool in the afternoon heat. For some strange reason the house was an inferno during the summer. Oaks shaded most of it, but lacked to help keep it cool. Somehow, someway, sunshine warmed the abode, all its room, and caused it to feel as if it were hell.

  I made my way into the basement, dumped my laundry, separated it into colors, and threw a load of whites inside the Whirlpool. After that mundane task, I went upstairs and decided to take a shower.

  Mother was still sleeping after I climbed out of the shower, dried off, and dressed. I removed the whites from the washer, tossed them into the dryer, and started a load of colors in the washing machine. Then I retrieved a beer from Mother’s Maytag in the kitchen, went out back, and sat in the shade, on a two-person swing, floating forward and backward for the next twenty minutes.

  Approximately five minutes into my swinging, Tuck hit me with a text. What are you doing?

  Laundry at my mother’s.

  Sad for you. I hate to do laundry.

  What are you doing?

  Looking for you. The tracking device I attached to the underside of your cock isn’t working. I’ll have to check it out later and schedule a repair.

  I laughed out loud and fingered him my response, Meet me in the attic in an hour.

  Can’t. I have practice. The piano doesn’t play itself.

  What if I promised you something naughty? Would that change your mind?

  Depends what kind of tricks you have up your sleeve, he wrote back.

  A quickie, of course. Something tells me you’ll be up for that.

  He didn’t respond right away. Ten minutes later my cellphone buzzed and his reply said, I want you inside my ass.

  Funny. I was thinking the same thing.

  We texted for the next few minutes until he agreed to meet me in the attic for some heated afternoon sex, a quickie for lack of a better term, and some heavy duty kissing.

  See you there, he finally sent me.

  Ditto, I replied, grinning from ear to ear, horny for him.

  * * * *

  Another thought floated in my mind: Love hurts. Loss hurts. Keep what you have for as long as you can.

  I did.

  I would.

  Chapter 30: Moon Dance

  October 20, 2015

  Inside his garage, sometime after two o’clock in the morning, drunk, giggly, and without any inhibitions, Carl stripped me out of my clothes, tossed me to his bed, and manhandled roughly.

  I was taken aback by his roughness, but enjoyed it nonetheless. Frankly, I didn’t mind my abs being struck by his fists or my nipples twisted by him. Nor did I mind the sharpest bites to my neck and inner thighs. And having my dick jammed down the length of his throat was euphoric as he choked on its length and girth, enjoying our private time together.

  Positioned on my knees with my legs spread open for him and my balls swinging between my sweat-slicked thighs, I didn’t want him stop when he thrust his cock inside my rear, spanked my bottom, and called me the nastiest names, down and over my back. Names that I had only seen other men use in naughty, adult movies on the Internet: Fuck-whore, Dick-humper, and Cum-wanter. The harsher the names, the better the sex was with him.

  The intimacy wasn’t all about Carl, though, which didn’t surprise me. He was addicted to me. Fingers grasped my smooth balls and tugged on them numerous times, pleasuring the both of us. One of his hands moved up and along my chest and discovered one of my nipples, twanging it, which sent a vibration of obstinate bliss throughout my torso. My dick was caressed and gripped all at the same time, and its skin was jostled to and fro, gliding in his right hand, attempting to get me off.

  We came together, I recall today, years later. I fired out my sticky semen on his bed and he crammed the condom over his cock with his thick ejaculate. We huffed, puffed, and gyrated together, and apart, in a mature dance, providing a new meaning to ‘stepping.’

  * * * *

  Afterward, laying naked next to him with our chests rising and falling because we were both out of breath, he was a complete gentleman with me and whispered, “You were a good find, Micah. My heart feels things for you.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I’ll let you know when I know.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, realizing that he was falling in love with me, minute by minute, and day by day.

  Chapter 31: Our Pairing

  August 18, 2014

  The Siberian Martini: 6 Parts Vodka, 4 Dashes of Orange Bitters, 1 Orange Peel.

  I honestly don’t know how the conversation of marriage came up the following afternoon. Tuck had a few hours off from practice and I decided to take a break from my critiques. We ended up in Crispin Park, splayed over a thin blanket in the sun, bathing in the warm rays of light. Our shorts were unbuttoned, our chests were bare, and we had water bottles nearby so we wouldn’t become dehydrated.

  Once again, I couldn’t remove my stare from his solid chest, which was drizzled with splotches of perspiration. His nipples were hard and his freckles shined in the summer sun. He lay to my right, golden red and delicious looking. Half of me wanted to take advantage of him there inside the park, but we weren’t alone, accompanied by other couples, dog walkers, mothers with their children, and random runners.

  Maybe it was Tuck who brought up marriage first, or maybe it was me. I’m not really sure to this day. I recall wedding cake being discussed and how he liked two raspberry layers around an orange-cream layer of icing. And he added, “A buttercream icing would top it all off.”

  Then we talked about black-and-white tuxedos, fittings, shoe sizes, and wedding presents, which covered anything for the kitchen to bathroom. He mentioned that he wanted to spend his honeymoon in Mexico and I wanted to fly to Prague. And other topics of concern were discussed—wedding music, photographers, open bars, card and gift tables, a wedding party, and themed receptions in lavish halls. All in all, we came to the agreement that we would probably elope and drive to Sioux Fall, South Dakota, spending a week in solitude by renting a mountaintop cabin.

  Other interesting topics surfaced between us while sunbathing together—fishing off the Gulf Coast, reading The Old Man and the Sea together, and going to the theatre to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show when it came to town. We talked about the singing group Journey, Rachel Ray recipes, and a web-based show on the Internet called Bears that we both enjoyed. Then we discussed flowers we liked, weather patterns in Erie compared to Cincinnati, and Gay Pride, which he claimed that he had never been to, but wanted to experience.

  Children were brought up during our summertime sunning. Both of us didn’t care for any. Not a pair. Not even one. Truth was Tuck summed up both of our feelings towards children as, “I didn’t have the greatest childhood growing up with my father. Why would I do that to a son or daughter? I could never hurt a child like that. Never.”

  “I understand exactly what you’re saying
, Tuck. My parents sort of left me behind all the time. I was often forced to make my own meals and do my own laundry. Maybe it was their way of making me grow up. I’m not sure. I’ll never be sure.”

  “Enough with the serious shit,” he said, and pulled me off the blanket. He grabbed two Rawlings gloves out his Nike duffel bag and a well-used softball. “We need to play some catch.”

  “I don’t know if I can catch a ball,” I said, being honest. “I really don’t have an athletic bone or gene in my body.”

  He walked away from me, separating us by thirty feet, spun around, and called out, “We’ll see how you do! Just don’t be nervous! Think you can do it and then you can!”

  He tossed the ball underhand to me and I missed it. The softball thumped to ground on my right side and rolled away. I chased after it like a puppy, snatched it up in my right hand, tossed it back to him overhand, which was spiraling and out of control. He caught it like a NBL professional.

  We tossed the ball back and forth, flexing muscles and becoming sweaty in the sun. I missed most of the ones that he threw to me, but he caught every single toss that I released to him, manhandling the ball with skill, proud of his athleticism.

  After the ball tossing, we sat Indian-style on the blanket, relished our bottles of water, and he said to me, “Maybe you should stick to wrestling with men.”

  I laughed at his comment, comprehending the sexual entendre, and replied, “I only want to wrestle with you, Tuck.”

  He snapped at me, “That can be arranged. I’d rather like to wrestle with you myself.”

  * * * *

  We didn’t wrestle in the park, though. Rather, we kissed when no one was looking, hugged, and laughed for really no reason. He begged me to give him a blowjob in the nearby woods, sucking him off until he came on my bare chest, hiding behind a cluster of oaks, but I told him I wasn’t brave enough to do that, fearing that a little girl, boy, mother, or hater of the world would come upon us and freak out.