by Neil Plakcy
I almost hit him with my car. This scrawny punk on a skateboard shocked the hell out of me. He was a blur of baggy clothes, moving at a high rate of speed, at a blind curve on Main Street at the end of the vast Lindenwood Cemetery by the city’s edge. He was going down a steep hill when he crossed into my path. I slammed my Birkenstock on the brake hard enough that the antilock mechanism engaged to keep the tires from skidding. I was lucky to have stopped in time. Reflexes, I guess. Man, I could’ve mashed his guts all over the pavement, and wouldn’t that have fucked with my head the rest of my life? Strangely, the first thing I noticed was that the paperback I always keep beside me was now lodged under the gas pedal. Since there were no cars coming, I put my car in PARK and kicked the book free.
The skateboarder’s astonished eyebrows were midforehead on his boyish face. He held my gaze, as if to process what had just happened. Then a change came over him, a soulful calm, but he kept staring.
What was on his mind? I normally have trouble maintaining eye contact with men outside of what I consider to be safe spots like gay bars. Memories of childhood bullies shouting “What are you lookin’ at?” have carried over into my adult years. I look at lips, not eyes. But with this young man, there seemed to be a bond between us. Could he be gay? That would probably be wishful thinking on my part.
Though he disguised it, I could tell that beneath those layers of clothes was a hot friggin’ body. Thin and athletic, he had dark hair and pale skin, with red splotches where the wind had burned his cheeks. When his neck was turned, he had the most beautiful profile: a jawline with no baby fat under the chin. He was devoid of facial hair, but he didn’t look freshly shaven. Perhaps his whiskers were so sparse it might take a full week before he needed a razor.
With a hand on the hood of my LeSabre to steady himself, he picked up his board. Then he gave me a solemn nod, as if to say, Thanks for stopping--and sorry about the scare, dude. The sleeves of his navy blue hoodie hung down past his knuckles. The meaty pads of his fingertips told me that he was a nail-biter.
After giving it a quick inspection, he eased his skateboard to the ground and planted his left foot at an angle near the center. He pushed off with his right sneaker--five hard pumps, then he was coasting down the street, swaying softly like a surfer riding waves. He turned and looked back at me, checking to see if I was still paying attention. I watched until he disappeared down the next hill. The bulge in my cargo pants was fuller than usual, with a trapped hard-on packed in there. I gave the ol’ boy a squeeze, with a promise to spend some quality time rubbin’ one out while thinking of the young stranger I encountered.
Later that night, I met an old friend for dinner, William Fisher. We used to be hangin’ buddies when he lived in Fort Wayne. It was an interesting relationship; we weren’t boyfriends exactly, more like romantic friends. We fulfilled one another’s emotional needs but got our sex elsewhere. Still, it was endearing that he knew me so well that he could order for me at restaurants, or help me pick out a teakettle at L.S. Ayres. He went with me to the bars since I hated going out alone. People assumed that we were a couple. Over the years, more than a few men said to me, “You’re single? I thought you two were together.”
Will preferred to keep his sex life mysterious, so I decided that I needn’t be hell-bent on complete honesty either; after all, it was more entertaining that way. I noticed that some guys would wait until William went to the bathroom before coming up to me. It was more than casual conversation or proper interest—it was sneaky in nature. Occasionally, they would suggest a surreptitious encounter: “William doesn’t have to know.” The same was said to William about me. Some queens can’t leave happy couples alone, can they? Later, Will and I would laugh about these games over coffee at the Pfeiffer House.
Will and I met up and then took his car to Casa Valentino. At the restaurant, he scooted his chair closer to me and grinned. “So how ya been doin’, Kathleen?”
“Oh, Elsie,” I said with a weary warble.
“How’s your sex life?”
“Dismal. In order for me to get laid, the stars have to align. I hardly get any action. What about yours?”
He was a connoisseur of the male form, so his list of lovers was impressive in its volume and variety. Some of the locations for these trysts and the erotic techniques involved left me in awe--and aroused.
“Hell, send me your sloppy seconds. I’ll take ’em.” I took a sip of my water and tasted a hint of lemon. “I almost ran over a skater dude today.” I told him the full story, and then added, “I think he might be gay.”
“And you didn’t mess around with him?”
“Naw.”
“Kathleen! Good lord, he’s not going to ramp a hill, land in your front seat and say, ‘Fuck me, daddy.’ You’ve got to do some of the work, too. Go after ’em with gusto.”
A woman three tables over held a forkful of pasta close to her mouth, but her bewildered eyes were focused on us.
“Let’s go out cruising tonight,” Will said.
After dinner, we picked up my car and parked it at the Pfeiffer House, a large Victorian mansion that had been converted into a coffeehouse, close to the Carole Lombard museum. I arrived first, and I took a piss behind the funeral home next door. Right after I finished, Will showed up. “Using the facilities?” he asked as I climbed into his Toyota.
Will liked the thrill of the hunt. Also, he had acquired a taste for “straight” boys’ cocks. He acted as my tour guide to the underbelly of city sex. Fulton Street was a key part of the route. It was a quiet residential street at the end of Sallee. If the approach was timed correctly, one could creep from the stop signs of each intersection and get a good look at the lineup of drivers.
I was amazed by the mastery of Will’s U-turns, three-point turnarounds, reverse driving, speed and stealth. He frequently made me dizzy, and I was glad that his car came equipped with an “oh, shit” bar, which I gripped tightly during the entire ride. He could spot a hottie blocks away, like a predator spying prey. He was adept at finding beautiful men in their natural habitat—on the streets.
“Where? Where?” I would say.
“Right there, leaning in the recess of that storefront. Open your eyes, Kathleen.”
Now as we cruised, our conversation turned from which politicians smoke pot to which suck dick. Will said, “His assistant is really his boyfriend. At hotels, they get separate rooms at check-in, but they only use one. They don’t even mess up the other bed. Not slick.” He guided the car past the leather bar and turned around where the street ended at the St. Mary’s River. “Damn, girl. The scene has dried up around here, hasn’t it?”
“Things were better back in the day, Elsie. Nowadays, folks are at home on their fuckin’ computers. No one goes out anymore.” Except for the skater boys, I thought.
Then we spotted ol’ Kirby, the legendary creature of local cruising lore. Will guffawed. “Holy shit, he’s still at it?”
“Lot of miles on that jalopy.”
“Let’s follow him,” Will suggested. “If anyone knows where the cock is at, it’s Kirby.”
His car took a left from Sallee onto Calhoun and headed farther south, away from downtown. “This is different,” I said.
“God, maybe the cruisers have gotten smart and they’re now circling the lesbian bar.”
From Calhoun, our pal turned onto an old brick side street. Tall weeds lined the path to our right as we headed west, along the railroad tracks. Up ahead, I spotted a group of skateboarders using the abandoned train station platform for their skating arena.
“Hold back,” I said. “Let’s see what Kirby does.” As he approached, his brake lights shined dimly in the darkness. A couple of the skater dudes watched him pass. One shook his head at him. “They know he’s cruising, and they’re not interested.”
“This is Kirby we’re talking about. He’d scare anyone. But I think we’re on the right trail. I wanna check ’em out.” Will put the car into gear and crept toward the group
.
I spotted my young stranger in the navy blue hoodie from earlier in the day and let out a quiet gasp. “Is that your boy?” Will asked.
“That’s him.”
Will drove me back to my car at the Pfeiffer House, advising me the whole way. “Just start talkin’ to him. It doesn’t matter what you say, but say it with sex in your voice. You can do it, ol’ girl. Now go get him.”
When I got back to the train station platform, I watched awhile from the same spot where Will and I had parked before. The skateboarders were beautiful creatures, using their bodies like gymnasts, performing daring stunts by the light of a few sparse streetlights. I admired the fact that they were working hard to practice this form of art. It was something they were doing for their own private glory and the admiration of like-minded comrades.
Just then, I saw the boy in the hoodie take a dive off the platform and fall next to the train tracks. He landed hard. I felt my own heart skip. Without thinking, I drove over to him and rolled down my window. “Are you all right?”
“Hey, it’s you again,” he said.
I blushed. “Yeah.”
He got up and dusted himself off, then came over to my window. “I’ve seen you before, you know.”
“You have? Where?”
“The parking garage at the Dash-In Café. I thought you were hot.”
I’ll be damned, I thought. I remembered seeing a group of skater boys there, though they reminded me of bullies. I was afraid they’d roll me for my wallet.
“My name’s Jesse,” I said.
“I’m Kyle.”
“Is your leg okay?”
“Skinned up, but it’s fine.” He grabbed hold of his cock through a fistful of baggy jeans. “This has been achin’ all day though.”
His boldness surprised me, but I felt my own member swell in response. “Wanna go back to my place?”
He gave me a confident nod with a sly smile. He climbed into the front seat and kept his board between his legs, hanging on to it like it was treasure. While he was sitting next to me, I saw that he was older than I had previously thought. I asked, and he said that he was twenty years old—only a year too young to go to the bars. Boy, is he going to knock ’em dead, I thought. I was thrilled that he was relatively untouched by the usual tramps who roam the clubs.
At my apartment, Boris greeted us with a sweet meow and stretched out on her back right in my path as always, trying to trip me. “That’s Boris. Don’t pet her. She bites.”
“Her name’s Boris? Dude, no wonder she bites. She’s got a boy’s name.”
I laughed. “I rescued her from a bean field. Poor little kitty was starving, so I nursed her into a robust cat. She’s feral--some of the wild never left her. But she’s taught me how to pet any cat. They give subtle signs when they’ve had enough, and if you ignore them? Chomp.” Then I caught myself. I talk too much when I’m nervous. I decided to shut up and communicate with actions only.
I put Boris in my office, and then came back into the living room. I turned off the lights and lit candles. While performing this task, the thought occurred to me that this boy was feral too, captured from the streets.
I came up behind him and lifted his hoodie over his head. A pleasant scent filled the air around him. Cologne? No, it must have been one of the body sprays the young guys are wearing these days, I decided. He wore two T-shirts. I peeled both of them off him, then my hands roved the contours of his body: smooth, hairless flesh pulled tightly over firm muscle. I reached my right hand inside his baggy jeans and grabbed his ass. As my fingers trailed the furry divide, I realized that I’d been holding my breath. I let out a sigh beside his ear and kissed the tender spot on his neck. “Ooh,” he said. He reached behind to touch my balding head.
Quickly, he turned around. His eyes were closed as his mouth searched for my lips. We locked into a steady rhythm, tasting each other. His tongue was tentative. Then he stuck it fully into my mouth, and I sucked it as if I were giving it a blow job. This seemed to spark his imagination. With trembling hands, he fiddled with the fly of my pants. “Let me help you there,” I said.
He pulled my pants down and began sucking before my cock had a chance to fully unfold from its sheath of skin. He nibbled on my foreskin lightly with his teeth. He cupped my balls in one hand and jacked me with the other. “You like that, baby? Huh? Does that feel good?”
His idea of dirty talk made me smile. “Yes,” I answered.
He sucked me again, probing with his tongue. Then he took more of it into his mouth. He tried not to show it, but he choked on it.
“My turn,” I said. Let me teach you some tricks, I thought.
His cock throbbed powerfully in my mouth. He panted. I let it slide out of my lips. I held it at the base and studied it. Gorgeous. “Oh, fuck,” he said.
How do you like that? I thought. His dick skin had unique texture--low mileage. The head was so engorged, it shined. My saliva made it glisten in the candlelight. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” I said.
On the bed, he clasped his hands behind his head, exposing his armpits: my weakness. As a redhead, my underarm hair is so light in color it’s almost translucent. I’m strongly drawn to dark, hairy pits. Kyle’s were a treat for me. I twisted my fingers into his luxurious, wiry curls. Then I kissed my way from his pectoral muscles, following the curve until my tongue touched the sensitive skin in the center. I buried my face to take in his scent. I like the stink of pits, feet and crotches.
I admired his hairy legs and saw a scar. I touched it lightly. “What’s this from?”
“Jumpin’ a full set of steps down at the city-county building. Let’s just say it was a rough landing.” He pointed to a long gash directly below his knee. “I got this on the very first day I bought my board.” There was pride in his voice, not shame.
After more than an hour of tending to each other’s needs, we rubbed our cocks together. I blew my load first. Kyle grabbed a handful of my cum and used it for lube to jack himself off. When he ejaculated, he held mine in place and splashed the head of my penis with his hot jism. He held them together until the heartbeat in each subsided. We were both floppy and spent.
I hopped up and got hot towels for us, and once we’d wiped up, I helped to dress him. I love putting clothes back on to a man almost as much as I enjoy removing them. Finally, I watched his arms swim inside his hoodie as he pulled it down into place. He gave me one last tender kiss. “I should go.”
“I could drive you back to your place,” I said. He hesitated. The thought seemed to worry him. Maybe he didn’t want me to know where he lived. Closeted? “Or wherever you’d like me to drop you off,” I added.
“Naw, dude. I’m cool.”
Outside my door, I watched him roll away--giving those same five hard pumps with his right foot. Then he was gliding along, a free spirit. He didn’t look back this time. He probably knew that I would be watching until I could no longer see him.
A while later, I heard the chime on my cell phone, alerting me that I’d received a text. I picked it up and saw that it was a message from Will. “Way to go, Kathleen. I’ll want details.”
CARTER DUBOSE
Martin Delacroix
Carter DuBose and his best friend, Douglas Quick, sat beneath a highway overpass, listening to traffic rumble. An orange glow from mercury streetlamps reflected in the rain-slicked pavement before them. Carter and Douglas shared a twelve-pack of beer, one Douglas had lifted from a convenience store. Beside them, the boys’ skateboards lay upside down on the sloping concrete. Rail slides had worn away paint on the boards’ undersides, their plastic wheels were grainy, their trucks pitted and scarred.
Douglas was a sinewy six-footer, a high school dropout. His yellow hair grew to his shoulders and fell across his ice blue eyes. A dragon tattoo adorned one forearm and his fingernails were filthy and bitten to nubs. His pectorals were visible beneath his T-shirt.
A half-inch scar resembling a pink centipede decorated Douglas’s temple, a s
ouvenir from a night three years beforehand, when his stepfather had attacked him with an empty George Dickel bottle. Douglas’s home was a perpetual maelstrom, filled with shouts and curses, accusations and recriminations, and Douglas avoided the place whenever he could, doing little but sleeping there and occasionally raiding the fridge.
When Douglas spoke a word ending in “ing” he always dropped the last letter, and he rarely formed a sentence that didn’t include the word “fuckin’.” Twice he’d spent time in the county’s juvenile detention facility; once for car theft, another time for possession of methamphetamine. Eighteen years old, he worked for his uncle’s landscaping business, mowing grass, edging sidewalks with a weed whacker, clearing driveways with a leaf blower that hung from his broad shoulders. He supplemented his income by burglarizing private homes, something Carter didn’t approve of.
“You’ll get caught one day,” Carter’d once told him, but Douglas only sneered. “I’ve done it dozens of times,” Douglas said. “The cops are fucking stupid.”
Now, Douglas picked a booger and flicked it at Carter, making him flinch. “That’s disgusting,” Carter cried. ”Keep that stuff to yourself. And why don’t you take a shower? You smell like old salami.”
Douglas’s version of personal hygiene was getting naked and hosing himself down on his family’s back patio two or three times a week. His mother kept a soap bar out there, but Douglas rarely used it, claiming it dried his skin and made him itch.
Carter was eighteen as well, but he looked younger. A few inches shorter than Douglas and skinny as a lawn rake, his coffee-colored hair fell into his brown eyes; it covered his ears and brushed the collar of his hooded sweatshirt. A turned-up nose and long eyelashes gave his face a girlish appearance. His fingers were long and large-knuckled. His skate sneakers were size tens and his jeans hung low on his hip bones. When he spoke, a rasp flavored his tenor voice.
Carter was a high school senior, and like many boys he harbored secrets:
That he made honor roll every nine weeks was a fact he hid from Douglas and the other skaters in his working-class Orlando neighborhood.