by Edward Lee
The fuckers can’t get enough.
Oh, yeah. I never did tell you exactly where I work, did I? That’s the best part about my little revolution.
I filled out one of those Anti-Discrimination Protection Act forms, and applied with the same bunch of two-faced, phony cocksuckers who started all this shit.
Yeah, that’s right, partner. I’m the head chef at the United States Senate Dining Room.
And—how do you like that!
Some poor fucker just ordered my first-class chimol tossed headcheese salad.
EVER NAT
Gray had seen the girl hitching down the route several nights in a row. Purebred redneck, he could tell, but…Christ, she’s cute. Faded cutoffs, halter top, sleek bare legs flashing in his headlights as she trod the road’s gravel edge. He’d read in the county section that prostitutes were known to hitch on the route…
Gray worked in the city: 125 K a year now, assistant programming director for UniCorp. Not bad for 40. And switching him to four-to-twelves dropped another ten percent in his pocket as a night differential. The adjustment came easy: fewer people in the office, fewer distractions and ringing phones—more time to work. Gray had no wife anymore and had never really cared about a social life; the way he saw it, work was the only way to make anything of himself. And I have, he thought now. His car, in part, was proof. An onyx-black Callaway Twin Turbo Corvette: sixty grand. A fifteen-thousand-dollar VTL/Apogee stereo at home. And home wasn’t shabby either, a three-bedroom luxury condo, waterfront. The good things in life—that’s what he worked for…
But at times like this, during these incalculable drives, he got to wondering. What else is there? Good question after two marriages and two divorces, plus the handful of nickel-dime relationships in between. Women always wanted something, at least it seemed to him. Like I owe them a life in exchange for sex once a week. He’d had it up with the whole ball of wax. I don’t need a woman in my life, he considered, comfortable behind the padded wheel. All I need is me…
But was that really true?
There were other needs.
Four-to-twelves had one more perk: no rush hour. Gray left the city at midnight, then took the route to the interstate. With no traffic, he’d be back to his condo in less than a half hour. State Route 154 was a long winding flood emergency route through the dense woodland of South County. It was a pretty drive, scenic—especially at night, especially during the summer. The low moon followed him through the trees. Crickets and peepers issued their steady, pulsating cacophony, and the stars glimmered like luminous spillage in the sky.
And here she was again. The girl he’d seen hitchhiking several nights in a row. The girl, and that rising need.
Yes, he’d read in the paper that prostitutes often walked the route, but not like the hookers in the city—they were all drug addicts, scary in their empty-eyed stares and sleazy getups. These route girls, he’d heard, were just poor rubes—white trash, for the most part—looking to make a few bucks to take back to their broken farms. And this one here?
Just last night he’d passed her, hadn’t he? She’d been walking just past the bend, and when Gray spotted her, something in his soul seized up. That trampy, hick beauty glared back in the swoosh of halogen high beams; a freeze-frame locked in his head.
Oh, man…
All slim curves and fine lines. Frayed cutoffs satcheled sleek, spread hips. Pert breasts, large for a girl of her delicate frame, swayed braless in the faded orange halter, and between that and her beltline, Gray lost his breath at the image of her tight, sloping abdomen and the tiny slit of bellybutton. Her face seemed to beam bright as the halogens: big brown eyes; a small, robust mouth; a peaches-and-cream complexion.
Hair the color of mature straw danced at her shoulders.
And all these details, yes, he’d managed to assess in the split-second glimpse as his Corvette rounded the bend. But one more detail nicked at him, more persistent than the others, and the detail was this: Her tanned arm extended, her thumb out.
Pick her up, he thought. Maybe she’ll…
Maybe she’ll what? Proposition you?
Was that what he was looking for?
The answer must’ve been yes, because a few tenths of a mile later, Gray was pulling a U. His heart seemed to pick up in its beat as he drove, scanning the lit shoulder. But—
Goddamn it!
When he got back to the bend, another car idled at the line—a nicely refurbed ’68 Camaro, ice white. It was a small block, with headers and chambered exhaust. Gray could tell by the healthy chunk-chunk-chunk of the idle. But something in his spirit seemed to collapse when he saw…
The girl was getting in. A final passing glimpse showed him the driver’s face in the left window, some stubbled, long-haired redneck. Goddamn rube probably changes tires for a living, Gray thought in disgust.
So that was the end of that. Or—
Maybe not.
Here she was again, tonight, hitching along the same shoulder, barefoot, long tan legs stepping backward as she jerked her thumb out.
Pick her up…
It was something like a haze in his eyes when he pulled the Corvette right over. A shadow danced in his rearview, and then the passenger door was opening. The shadow slipped in, bringing a faintly musky scent in its wake. The door slunked shut.
“Hi,” Gray said.
“Ha,” she replied. That’s what her redneck dialect turned the word “hi” into. “Wow, this, I say, this is some really nass car.”
Nass? he thought, but then he considered the dialect again. She was saying nice.
“Thanks. So where you headed?”
“Tylersville, I means, if ya kin go alls that way. Youse kin drops me off ’fore the highway ramp if ya’s cain’t go that far.”
Fuck. Tylersville was all the way at the end of the route, close to ten miles probably.
“Sure,” he agreed. What else have I got to do? Gray thought. Go home? Catch the end of Leno? “It’s not that far out of my way.”
“Thank-ya, and I’se sorry if I smell like crabs.”
The comment took him aback. “Smell like what?”
“Likes crabs. See, I’se work for Stevenson’s Crabbers. They’se got a shack just up the route. That’s where I’se walkin’ home from juss now. I’se a crab-picker. See, they’se buy crabs by the bushel down the City Dock, and we’s pick all the meat out of ’em and put it in containers ta sells ta the city restaurants so they’se can make crabcakes’n newburg’n stuff. Pay’s not bad, eithers—fifty cent over minimum wage.”
What was that? About seven bucks an hour to pick crabs in some sweatshop all day. I make that much in about five minutes, he thought.
“Sounds like, uh, an interesting job.”
“Ak-shure-lee it kinda sucks,” she admitted, “but I gots a baby an’ I don’t wanna go on the welfare.”
“Well, that’s, uh, that’s very commendable of you,” Gray struggled for a reply.
“An’, ya know, you’ll’se see me hitchin’ home from there this time most ever nat.”
Ever nat? Gray tried to decipher and remembered yet again the dialect. Ever nat. Every night.
“Yeah, I, you know, I think I saw you last night, but—”
“I saws you too. Ain’t no way I’d ferget a nice car like this. Wish ya’d picked me up, thoughs, cos the guy who did, it was this real cracker inna white Camaro. He weren’t very nice.”
Gray searched for a comment. What did she mean? But before he could think of something…
“’Corse I do more’n pick crabs fer money, ya know.”
Silence. Gray drove with it. It was like a companion riding in the backseat, a preceptor sitting there and waiting to see how he would gauge and then react to the remark.
This was the moment, wasn’t it? Put up or shut up.
His groin, suddenly, felt like some burgeoning thing, a husky, drooling animal dragging him around. He couldn’t control it. He hadn’t really even looked at her since she
’d gotten into the car, yet something about her seemed to emanate: the musky, perspiry scent, the gentle drawl of her voice, the way her lithe shadow played on the dashboard.
“An’ I guess you knows what I’se talkin’ ’bout,” she went on unabashed, “’n’less that’s, like, a summer squash ya gots there in yer pants.”
Gray, in spite of his nervousness, almost belted out a loud laugh. It reminded him of old high school jokes. Is that the Loch Ness Monster in your pants, or are you just happy to see me? Shit. Some summer squash. Six and a quarter inches, and that was on a good day. But it was time, wasn’t it? Time to get down to business.
“I’m not a cop or anything,” he felt the impulse to offer. Didn’t they usually ask that first? He’d seen it on the cop shows and in the movies. If they asked and a decoy cop said no, there was some entrapment law they’d be violating? Gray wasn’t sure.
“Oh, I know you ain’t no cop,” she said and laughed lightly. “Cops don’t drive cars like this! ’Sides, I kin tell youse’re a nass guy.”
Hmm. So. I’m a nass guy.
“Well, thank you for saying so,” he said. “You’re a nice girl.”
“And I’se kin tell ya, cops ’round these parts? They ain’t nass. ’Specially them county sheriffs. They ain’t nass at all.”
Gray didn’t know what to say. He was too excited to pursue small talk. The pause that followed sounded hollow, mixed with the big engine’s soft hum. He gulped and continued, “So, like how much money are we talking here, and, you know…for what?”
Her voice didn’t hitch. “I’ll’se give ya a good blow job fer, like, ten bucks, if you’ll drive me alls the way home.”
Ten bucks? Christ. Gray was about to offer a hundred. He fished in his pocket—there was a twenty in there somewhere. He grabbed some haphazard bills and gave them to her.
“I don’t know what that is,” he said. “Twenty, thirty, something like that. You can have it.”
“Dag, mister!” Her nimble hands counted the bills in the moonlight on the dash. “This here’s twennie, not ten. Plus a five.”
“You can have it, you know, for—”
The feel of her hand on his groin silenced him. At first it felt as though a little bird had landed there, but then the bird gave a soft rub and then a harder squeeze. Gray nearly came.
Her lilting voice hushed as she leaned over. The hand rubbed him more intricately. “I mean, I don’t wants ya ta think I’m juss some whore’re anything. But I’se never seed nothing wrong with a gal taking some money long’s she’s willing ta give something’n return. Ya know? Mue-cher-all agreement.”
Gray’s breath lodged in his chest. “I…agree…”
“Tells ya what,” she whispered. Now her face was so close to his crotch, he could almost feel her breath on it. “Youse juss keep yer hands on the wheel an’ con-ser-trates on yer drivin’, an’ I’ll’se do the rest.”
Gray gulped, nodded mutely.
He felt his buckle come undone, then heard the rasp of his zipper. A sweet shock seemed to tremor, then, when he felt her fingers push his slacks down and then pry out his scrotum and already hard penis. She gently squeezed his balls, and, next, harder, she squeezed the shaft. Gray felt a small reservoir of pre-ejaculate form at the glans.
“Youse juss drives me all the way down the route. Turn left on 3 ta Tylersville, an’ I’se’ll suck ya the whole way.”
Gray was about to come right now, not ten miles from now, and she hadn’t even taken it into her mouth. I don’t think…I’ll quite…last that…long, he thought, his teeth grinding.
Her right hand cupped his balls as her mouth sucked, first the glans, then took the whole thing—all six and a quarter inches—down to the back of her throat. Gray’s cock suddenly felt cocooned in a hot, wet gulf. At the base, her lips constricted to a tight O, then drew up. This was expert, this was phenomenal. That delectable wet O drew up and down again, up and down—
Thinking about baseball worked to a point, a destructive distraction. Each time he forced an image into his head—Clemens’ twenty-second win or A-Rod’s post-season record breaker—Gray’s orgasm was staved off for a moment. But he gnashed his teeth in objection—inviting such imagery seemed a horrible vandalism to the sensation. He wanted the sensation to be extended, though; hence, a brutal cycle of sabotage. He’d turn the image off and was about to come, so he turned it right back on: Swisher, Jeter, Texiera, etc. Aw, Jesus! When he summoned the image of C.C. Sabathia’s face, his erection nearly died.
“Mmm, yeah,” the girl paused to say. “You’re lastin’ a good long while. I wouldn’t mind ya fuckin’ me, neithers. Bet’cha’d make me come.”
She slowly jacked it with her hand a few times, fingers playing over slick spit. Gray had to keep his eyes ludicrously wide on the road.
“I don’t mind suckin’ fellas off,” she drawled on. “It’s kind’a fun.” She squeezed more crystal ooze out of the tip, then played her thumb over it. Gray fidgeted sharply in the seat.
“And you ain’t like a lotta guys.” More talk, more hand-play. “You know? Lotta guys talk real nasty while I’m doin’ it, sayin’ mean stuff. Like that fella last night? Kept callin’ me pig’n bitch’n whore, sayin’ ‘suck that cock, ya little whore’ and stuff like that.”
Gray’s legs were tremoring; he had trouble keeping his right foot controlled over the gas. “That’s, uh,” he gasped. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“Naw, but you are.”
Her voice was erotic—that drawl, half innocence, half experience. Sabathia’s psychological wreckage disappeared, and Gray was hard again, hard as metal pipe. She’d squeeze against the nerve-charged rigidity, slide her hand up, slide her hand down, with painstaking slowness. A few more times like that and he’d come all over himself, probably squirt himself in the face. But just when that would happen, she let go and massaged his balls. Gray was definitely getting his money’s worth.
She seemed to be considering something when she said, “Awright, I know what I’ll do. But I don’t usually do it, just so ya’s know.”
Gray was dismayed, face bloated and popping sweat behind the wheel. What the fuck are you talking about? Keep sucking!
She held something up she’d slipped out of her pocket. Gray heard the faintest tearing sound. He pulled his eyes off the road several times, sneaking glances, and saw that she’d just slipped a condom out of its packet. The rubbery lubricant scent wafted over.
“What, uh, what are you—”
“Shh,” she replied. “You’ll like this.”
What, she’s gonna fuck me while I’m driving?
“See, fellas all like it, they just never say so on account they don’t want the girl ta think they’re queer.”
Gray remained speechless in his dismay as she rolled the condom over her right index finger. Then she was leaning over.
“What, uh, what are you—”
“In we go.” She slipped her finger right into his anus, slipped it in deep.
Gray could not reckon such turmoil; he wanted to shout. But then it occurred to him only a second later that this “turmoil” was very interesting. Gray’s entire being felt bloated in the strange, excruciating pleasure, and before he knew it she was fellating him again, with mind-boggling precision. He knew he’d last only a second longer like this, the mouth sucking his cock like she was drinking a milkshake through a straw and the finger roving. It didn’t matter that he’d last only another second, because he knew it would be the best second of pleasure in his life.
Yes, in just another—
Gray seized up in the driver’s seat and came anxiously into the hot wet wonderful spit-filled mouth. It was an explosive release. He thought of a tube of window chalk lying on its side and suddenly being smacked with a sledgehammer, its contents evacuated at once. He expected her lips to pop off at the first mammoth spurt, but they didn’t. They stayed there, more quickly now drawing up and down. Gray’s hips quivered, his asshole clenching around her finger, and
then his buttocks rose off the leather seat as he struggled to remember he was driving a car down a winding road. So much semen spurted out of him he wondered how her mouth could hold it all. The orgasm supplanted him into another world; his eyes rolled in his head, and his knees shook to the point that he could barely control the foot pedals.
When she was done, she slipped her mouth off, leaned back, and swallowed.
“Fellas like it more when a gal swallers,” she said. “Don’t know why, but’cha git used ta the way it tastes.”
Gray barely heard her, nerves firing down. He felt like a big sack of dough in the seat. Then he flinched, nearly yelped aloud, when she slipped the condomed finger out of his anus. The after-sensation radiated, and as she’d been removing her finger, he felt some mysterious leftover of sperm ooze slowly out of his urethra.
Holy motherfucking shit, he thought.
She held her hand out the window, slipped the fouled condom off her finger. It flew away into the dark like an expectoration.
“Ya feel better now?” she asked him.
Gray tried to say yes but his tongue clogged his mouth. Sucking breaths, he nodded.
“I knew ya’d like it. My brothers tolt me ’bout it, ’bout how they’ll come better during a blow job with a finger up’n their ass. Some gland up in there, little gland that makes yer jizz er somethin’.”
Gray could fathom absolutely no response. Had she said her brothers? Her brothers had given her a lesson in rectal anatomy? Gray didn’t even want to guess, didn’t want to imagine what kind of family she might have come from. But of course she’d been right, too. Her technical intricacies had provided him the best orgasm of his life. She rubbed his testicles some more and he was still spasming down. A finger up the ass, huh? Until then the only things to ever be up Gray’s ass were turds, but he could hardly argue.
He slowed the car down, unaware until now how he’d been accelerating through the event. Finally he blurted out, “That was great.”