“Yes,” Will says, the word escaping him to rise toward the roof of the car. Every time Corey runs his finger down the same path, it elicits another yes from Will, each louder than the last, until he clutches the seat beneath him and cries out into the night. “Yes, yes.”
Just when Will thinks he’ll explode, Corey’s hands disappear. Forcing his breath to slow, Will sighs. “There’s lube in the glove compartment.”
In the passenger seat, Corey shucks off his sneakers, extracting a condom from the inside of his left shoe. With expert moves, he tears open the foil packet with his teeth then rolls the condom onto Will’s cock without ceremony. Will fiddles with it, pinching room into the tip of the condom, as he hears the hustler rummage through the glove compartment. Too late, he wonders if his service pistol is in there. He turned it in last month with his badge, but can’t seem to remember if the chief returned it yet or not. If it’s there, and Corey finds it…
He hears a click as the glove compartment snaps shut, then Corey holds up a curvy bottle of Astroglide. “This it?”
Before Will can get a good look, Corey flicks open the pop-top and squirts a generous dollop of the thick gel onto the tip of Will’s dick. Even through the condom, Will feels the cool liquid slowly drip down his shaft. “Don’t use it all—”
But the telltale raspberry sound of the bottle emptying interrupts him. “Too late,” Corey says, giving the bottle one good last squeeze before he pitches it behind his seat. Will ducks to avoid getting hit in the head with the bottle and feels the car move as Corey climbs onto him. “Guide me. I want your thick cock in my ass like now.”
Will has never found such vulgar talk sexy. “You don’t have to be so—”
“Now,” Corey says again as he plops down to straddle Will’s chest.
Will’s hands are drawn to those pale buttocks—he cups them, his fingers sliding into the cleft between the cheeks, massaging the firm muscle. One forefinger finds Corey’s trembling hole, which puckers and flexes as he rims it. Above him, Corey fists his hands in Will’s shirt and rocks back into his hands. “Fuck me already,” he demands, jumping a little to rock the car. “You’re paying for it, aren’t you?”
Sitting up, Will covers Corey’s foul mouth with his own, silencing him. The hustler sits back, surprised, and finds himself seated in the palms of Will’s strong hands. Spreading those tender asscheeks wide, Will guides his dick to the hidden center of Corey’s being. The wet tip of the condom slides over smooth skin, and Will uses his fingertips to angle it into place.
Corey makes a muffled noise, his lips pressed to Will’s. When they part, allowing Will’s hungry tongue entry, Will thrusts up into the hustler’s tight ass.
That earns him a breathy gasp.
Will falls back to the seat, hips bucking to force as much of himself as he can into his lover for the evening. Corey follows him down, hands still clenched in Will’s shirt, his mouth ardent, insistent, as it seeks Will’s own. “Yes,” he sighs into Will as they kiss, his words timed with each thrust, each fuck. “Please, god, yes, god, fuck, yes, yes.”
They find a fast pace, a furious rhythm spurred on by Corey’s half-whispered moans. The friction of Will’s cock thrust between Corey’s willing buttocks sets the night on fire around them. Will feels his blood blaze in his veins as he rocks toward release. Harder, faster, he forces his way into the body above his as he holds on tightly to Corey’s hips. His fingers burn against the pale skin as if leaving scorch marks behind. Deeper, harder, in, as far as he can go, as far as Corey lets him. Will gives in to the ancient art of sex and lets the rest of his day, the rest of his life, fall away. Faster, yes, yes.
He needs this.
When his orgasm shudders through him, Will grabs the tie holding back Corey’s release and pulls it free. Corey sits up, hips grinding above Will’s, hand jerking as he comes in a white rush that slicks Will’s lower belly. White cum streaks his black skin like spilt milk. One elbow hits the car horn behind him, and the 350Z blares into the night in time with Corey’s strokes. The sound sets off in Will a second, more vicious orgasm, and he clamps his hands down on Corey’s upper thighs to hold the hustler in place as he shoots his load inside him again.
For a long moment, they sit coupled together, Will panting as he lies in the driver’s seat, Corey leaning back against the steering wheel. Neither seems able to speak nor has the energy to pull apart. Finally Corey runs a hand through his hair, and the short black bangs stand up from his temple from the lube on his fingers. He takes a deep breath, but his voice still shakes slightly when he speaks. “You know,” he sighs, “I like you, so I’m gonna cut you a deal. Let’s say a hundred fifty for the whole thing. That cool with you?”
Will reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, moving carefully to avoid dislodging Corey. At that price, he knows he could easily eat through his whole paycheck for this boy from the streets.
SATYR
Jeff Mann
He stands in the rain, backpack over one shoulder, hopeful thumb cocked. Behind him, the woodlands of Draper Mountain are thick with August green. I never pick up hitchhikers, but the afternoon’s become a blinding deluge, and the boy looks waiflike and pathetic out here in the middle of nowhere, unkempt hair stuck to his brow. Besides, I’ve had my eye on him for months. I’d be a fool not to take advantage of such an opportunity.
Pulling my Jeep over onto the graveled roadside, I unlock the passenger-side door and beckon. The boy jogs over and climbs inside. He grins at me, drops his pack on the floor, shakes his shaggy hair like a wet dog and says, “Thanks, sir! I really appreciate it. It’s raining cats and dogs out there. I’m drenched!” His voice is low and lilting, his accent country-thick.
I soak in his looks while he brushes thick brown bangs out of his eyes and wipes raindrops from his whiskered chin. I know his features well, despite the fact that we’ve never met. All summer, on my daily commute to Virginia Tech, I’ve admired him. Almost every time I’ve driven past that shabby apartment building on the wrong side of the tracks, he’s been sitting on the stoop, beside a skinny, grizzle-jawed man I’ve assumed to be his father. Every time I passed I gawked; I couldn’t help myself. The boy would smile at me; the father would glare. I wasn’t staring at their obvious poverty; many folks in this little mountain town are poor, a constant reminder that I’m very lucky in such an economic downturn to have the job I do. No, I was ogling the boy’s handsome face and lithe body.
Luckily for my voyeuristic lust, this summer’s been hotter than any in memory, meaning that, every time I saw him, the object of my admiration was wearing nothing but shorts. Something about him made him look underage, not more than sixteen. Perhaps it was his short stature, around five foot six. Perhaps it was his oval baby face, the innocent brown eyes beneath thick eyebrows, the muss of wavy hair down to his shoulders. Some evenings he reminded me of a carefree child, bouncing a basketball or pedaling up and down the block on a bike far too small for him. Other times he looked perturbed, a sullen adolescent, sitting on the concrete stoop with glossy hair falling over his eyes, full lips set in a pout, his chin in his hands. The age difference both turned me on and made me squirm. I’m only thirty-eight, but my desire for a boy so young made me feel like a pervert.
Other things, mature details—and these were the elements that aroused me—made him look not like a boy but a miniature man. He wore a bushy chin-beard and thick sideburns, unshaven stubble perpetually shadowed his cheeks, vine-like tattoos wove around his wiry arms and shoulders, hair coated his lightly muscled chest and lean belly and his legs were so covered with brown fur they were practically shaggy. Two or three times, he was holding what had to be a beer can, leading me to believe that he was at least twenty-one. This conviction only fed my interest. Many was the time I’d drive straight home after such a sighting and jack off, imagining the little guy naked beneath me, legs spread, begging me to stuff his asshole full.
Now, amazingly, here he is, a few inches away, though fully clothe
d. He’s wearing muddy sneakers, and, above dirty Madras shorts, a black muscle-shirt, so wet it’s molded to his skin, showing off his torso’s sweet shapeliness.
“I’m Timmy, sir. Timothy Keith Woodson. And I think I’ve seen you before. Don’t you live around here?” He extends a hand.
Excellent, an excuse to touch him. We shake. For such a small guy, his grip’s surprisingly firm.
“I’m Bryan Laurel. I moved here from Washington, D.C. this spring. And I’ve seen you too, sitting outside your apartment. On Jefferson Avenue, right?”
“Ah, yeah. The place’s really hot this time of year, and my stepdad can’t afford air-conditioning or cable, so we…” The boy trails off, clearly embarrassed.
“I understand. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you with your shirt on.”
The comment’s very deliberate. Being this close to the boy already has me half-hard. It’s been a long time since I’ve made love to anyone, much less someone this hot. So I’m probing possibilities, making clear that I’ve noticed his previous states of undress. “Where you heading?” I ask, fingering the gearshift and clearing my throat. Lust this powerful always makes my palms sweat and my throat go dry.
“Sylvatus, sir, to visit kin. I grew up there. It’s over the mountain a piece.”
“You’re walking to Sylvatus? That’s a long way.”
“Can’t afford a vehicle. Next to no work around here. Only job I got’s part-time at Sonic. And my stepdad won’t drive me. He and I don’t much get along.”
Lightning flashes, and, immediately afterward, thunder crashes, shaking the vehicle. The rain thickens, pounding the Jeep’s roof and hood. Beside us, the steep road’s awash with muddy water.
“Sylvatus is a little out of my way, but I can drive you there. We should sit here for a while, though, till the storm slows up. Seems like it’s right on top of us.”
“Ain’t in any hurry. Long as I get to Sylvatus by suppertime. I don’t want to miss my aunt’s pot roast.”
“How old are you, Timmy?”
“I’m twenty-two, though, yeah, I know, I know, folks tell me I look younger. Always get carded when I buy beer. It’s a pain in the butt.”
“Well, speaking of beer, before this surprise storm set in, I was heading out to Claytor Lake for some fishing—I have a little motorboat there—which means there’s a six-pack in the cooler behind your seat. Want a beer?”
“Hell, yes! I mean, yes, please. I’d sure appreciate it.”
“You’re sure you’re twenty-one?”
“Yes, sir. I swear!”
“Your reward for good manners,” I say, opening the cooler. “Been a while since I ran across a guy your age who’s so polite. Lots of kids in D.C. are spoiled and rude. Here,” I say, popping open a bottle and handing it to him. “This wheat beer’s Starr Hill, from Crozet.”
Timmy takes a pull and licks his lips. “It’s great! Tastes a little like clove cigarettes I used to smoke in high school. Thanks, sir.”
“The ‘sir’ isn’t necessary. You can call me Bryan.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Timmy says, shaking his head, “but we country boys ain’t raised to call our elders by their first names.”
Elders. Ouch. So much for my attempt at reducing formal distance.
“Ah, okay.” I chuckle, stroking my beard. “I’m still not used to living around here. It’s pretty different from D.C.”
“City boy, huh? We hillfolk ain’t bad, once you get to know us.”
For a few moments we sit without speaking, sipping beer and listening to the rain. Thunder crashes again, even louder. “Shit, that was close!” Timmy says, looking startled. Heteros have it so easy. If I were straight, and Timmy were a girl, I could take this excuse to put a comforting arm around him. As it is, my guess is that most queers flee this rural region. The likelihood that my little friend here would share my erotic interests is pretty small.
“This brew’s real good,” Tim says, sipping. “Thanks again.” Then he continues, in a hesitant voice. “Sir, mind if I ask you something?”
Uh-oh. He sounds almost frightened. “Sure,” I say, taking a long swig.
“Are you gay?”
I choke on my beer. Doubling over, I hack and curse. “Fuck!”
“Sorry!” Timmy exclaims, slapping my back.
The coughing fit subsides. Face flushed, sides aching, I stare at him. He’s much smaller than I, so if he turns hostile, I can kick his ass with ease. “Uh, yes, I am. Why do you ask?”
“The rainbow flag on your bumper. My aunt drags me to church sometimes—I hate it, but she insists—and the preacher, he talks a lot about ‘the gay agenda,’ and how such ‘perverts’ are going to hell, and he’s warned us about ‘satanic queer codes,’ to use his expression. The rainbow flag was one he mentioned.”
I take a long breath, trying to regain my composure. I want to say, “This particular gay guy would love to suck you off right now” or “Is your butt as hairy as your chest and legs? Why don’t you come home with me and I’ll eat your ass for an hour?” but I’ve always been far too shy to make a pass if I’m not convinced that my interest is reciprocated, so instead I say, “And do you agree with your preacher?”
“Hell, no. I know better.” Timmy grins, taking a swig of beer. “I’m gay too.”
We have a second beer, waiting for the storm to move off. I tell Timmy a little about myself: how I moved here in May, six months after Ed, my partner of five years, left me; how I’d had enough of D.C., its traffic, its humidity, all the restaurants and bars that reminded me of Ed and how much he’d hurt me. Timmy tells me about his high school years, his successful attempts to hide his homosexuality with a series of girlfriends, his achievements in wrestling and track, his brief and very secretive affair with another runner, his mother’s early death from lung cancer, his feuds with his stepfather, his desires to move to some queer-friendly city and the lack of cash that has hindered him in that and so many other hopes.
The rain tapers off; the sun comes out. When Timmy’s stomach growls, I offer to treat him to lunch. He directs me up over the mountain and down into the tiny community of Draper. We sit on the front porch of the country store and snack on the rural Southern food he seems to favor: fried pork skins, pickled eggs, and baloney sandwiches. Then we’re off down Route 100, along rain-swollen creeks. I drop him off in Sylvatus, in front of a rickety farmhouse overshadowed by a cigar tree. A couple of teenaged girls in bright colors are swaying in a porch swing. They cheer, seeing him climb from my Jeep.
“Them’s my cousins. Thanks, sir,” he says, smiling. “I really appreciate your kindness.”
Again, I choke back what I really want to say: “May I see you again?” and “How about you come over for drinks and dinner sometime?” and “May I have your phone number?” and “Any chance a sweet little guy like you is a fan of smooth-pated, black-bearded muscle-bears like me?” Instead, I say, “No problem. It was great meeting you.”
Timmy turns away, pauses, and turns back. “Where you live, Mr. Laurel? In town, right?”
“The brick house at the corner of Prospect and Madison. It’s got green shutters and a big lawn. Set back in some trees.”
“Got it. Well, maybe we’ll meet again sometime.” Timmy gives me another smile, tosses his hair out of his eyes, and heads for the farmhouse. I drive off, practically cross-eyed with lust, anxiety, curiosity, and hope, my frustrated dick tenting my jeans.
The following week, I’m enjoying an afternoon nap on the couch when the doorbell buzzes. I open the front door, still half-asleep. To my amazement, it’s Timmy Woodson. He’s smiling. He looks me up and down. His smile broadens. That’s when I realize I’ve got nothing on but black nylon gym shorts.
I rub my eyes and yawn, scratching my belly’s black thatch. The boy looks great. He’s wearing cargo shorts that display his shaggy calves, short work boots that have seen better days, and a form-fitting white A-shirt that emphasizes the lines of his tasty torso and gives
me a great view of brown chest hair curling over the top. His one flaw’s the black bruise around his right eye.
“Howdy, Mr. Laurel,” Timmy says. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. Did I wake you up?”
“Ah, no problem. Worked late last night. Fell asleep after lifting weights.”
“You look like you work out, that’s for sure.”
My god, I think the boy’s flirting. “Thanks,” I say, flushing and looking sideways. “Yeah, I try to keep fit. How’d you get that black eye?”
Timmy fidgets. “Ah, got in a little street scuffle, that’s all. Look, Mr. Laurel, I’m still only working part-time at Sonic, so I’ve been looking for odd jobs around town. I was wondering if you could do with a little yard work.”
“Well, I usually mow the grass myself, but—”
“I could really use the money, sir. I’d do a great job, I promise. You have a lawn mower, right?”
“Sure, kid. Okay. Follow me.”
It takes only a couple of minutes to bounce the mower from the basement and gas it up. Soon thereafter, I’m standing by the living room window, heart pounding and throat tight, watching the boy work and rubbing myself through my shorts. The slight swell of his chest beneath the ribbed white cotton, the effort knotting up his tattooed arms, the strain of his calves, the curve of his ass…I can’t stop staring. The boy maddens and moves me. I can’t believe he’s here. I can’t believe, after all I lost with Ed, I can still feel this hot mix of lust and tenderness. Long, lonely months of celibacy have only made my ardor sharper.
Timmy’s a fast worker. As big as the lawn is, he’s done in thirty minutes. I meet him at the door. His long hair’s plastered to his brow; his A-shirt’s soaked; his hairy armpits exude the rich odor of fresh sweat. Too late, I realize I should have put on a different pair of shorts. Gym trunks are none too effective at hiding a hard-on.
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