Joe the Welder

Joe the Welder 1

Ok, here's the all the stuff you need to know before you get to the story:

• This is a work of fiction; people, places, and events are all made up by me.

• This is, at times, a adult piece of fiction, and includes adult situations, language, occasionally hot sex, and romance/love. If you aren't at the appropriate age for your location to be reading this stuff, you've got a couple of options: 1) Bookmark it with a date of your legal “adult” birthday, and read it then; or 2) Move to a new location where you ARE legal. Regardless of which option you select, you need to go ahead and leave the site now.

• I created and own this piece, and all copyright privileges are mine. You can read it, laugh at it, quote to your friends from it, delete it from your system, but you can't copy it or otherwise use it without my permission.

• Comments are certainly welcome! Feel free to contact me at Northshoreman1@yahoo.com. Put the story name in the subject line, so I'll know it's not spam. Just promise you'll be gentle—this is my first publication.

• Your mileage may vary.

Whew! Hate that required stuff, but it's there for a reason.

But, here's my last comment before you go to the story: I'm like you and the other 98% of the readers here—I'm a lurker. I read the stories, find story lines I like, and check back regularly (ok, daily, I admit it!) for the next chapter. I'd never seriously thought about what it takes for a site like this to operate. Understand, there are damn few sites like this that regularly publish—without charge—and encourage writing. I'm making a commitment here and now to regularly support Nifty. It's not cheap to keep the site running, maintain archives, etc.! Help 'em out, huh? Toss 'em a few bucks occasionally. Your brain and libido will thank you for it!

Now, on to the story.....

Joe The Welder

Chapter 1

What the fuck?

I'm leaning against my minivan, playing tonsil hockey with a “straight” guy I'd met just 3 days ago. My hard-on rubbing against his through our jeans, my hands cupping his ass, him grinding into me as his tongue checked my teeth for cavities and his lips tried to create a vacuum seal against mine.

Don't ya hate it when stories start off like this? But here's a little background—and perhaps you'll appreciate my confusion.

Three weeks ago, I'd introduced myself to this almost favorite new hangout bar with my best bud—The Main Street Bar. We'd been out a couple of months before, having a drink at Berlin's in the Historic District, and talked about the “new” bar we'd driven past. Technically, it wasn't new—it'd been there and we'd both driven past it multiple times but never stopped. The Main Street Bar looked nice enough from the outside, but was blessed/cursed with a hidden dirt parking behind the building, and was challenging to find the lot the first couple of times.

Since I loved exploring new bars (yeah, it's kind of a nutty hobby, right?), my buddy and I left the familiarity of Berlin's to head over. And I immediately felt at home in The Main Street Bar, with it's original 50's era decor, big dark bar along one wall, and picture windows that let in the fading daylight drifting in over the roof of the train station across the street. Neat and clean, with row upon row of liquor bottles along the wall, just throw in a few wafts of cigarette smoke and you've got that dark little bar seen in every cliched movie.

I'd been to the bar a few times, getting comfortable with the cute bartender, and the straight clientele of the bar, and relaxed with a fresh scotch and soda in hand. My wingman had already grabbed his bourbon and coke and was playing pool with the manager of the Lincoln dealership a pool table away. A herd of folks came in the back door from the parking lot, loud and laughing, heading to the bar.

I'd lit a fresh cigarette and was enjoying it, scotch half finished in front of me when the bartender came over to check on me—and then said “Rex, have you met Joe?”. (Yeah, he's the bartender you always wanted—friendly, keeps the drinks flowing, and makes sure everyone in the bar knows everyone else.) I turned and instinctively stuck out my hand.

Joe stood there grinning as we shook hands, and like every guy, gay or straight, I checked him out. Little fireplug of a guy, maybe 5'7”, or so, 190 pounds. Stocky linebacker-type body. Dark brown short hair, baseball cap. Brown eyes with flecks of gold. Small gap between his two front teeth with a smile that made his whole face light up. Cotton shirt with tshirt underneath—and a tuft of chest hair spilling over the top of the t. Firm, rough workingman hands. Clean worn jeans and tan laceup workboots. Not model quality, but good looking in that clean-cut, all-american style.

Now you're wondering about me. I'm the middle-aged guy next door. 5'11, 215, broad shoulders, big chest. Yeah, I need to drop a few pounds—I've battled that all my life, and regular gym visits would help. But the combination of chest, shoulders, and height let me carry the weight ok. Brown hair with plenty of grey working it's way in. Hazel eyes, cleanshaven face that's been graciously described as kind. Smooth body, with maybe 3 hairs on my chest—Mo, Joe, and Curly. And I'm in relaxed mode since I changed from my dress clothes from the real estate sales job into cowboy boots, jeans, and golf-type shirt. Like I said, just the average guy next door---maybe on a good day described as handsome (not pretty, just “handsome”). Gay, but no one ever guesses, and it doesn't matter to me if they do.....I'm ok with who and what I am.

Joe ordered his Miller, lit a smoke when it arrived, and made small talk. Although he came in with the herd, he only occasionally joined in their conversation, keeping his back mostly to them, and chatting with me. He DID introduce me to them, including his nephew Brandon. Remarkably, having just met, he was totally comfortable talking about his new life here—and I'm a damn good listener. He's 43, a few years younger than me. Just moved to town a couple of weeks ago from the upper peninsula of Michigan after losing his job 3 months ago. Staying with his nephew, Brandon, on his living room sofa until he could find a job here. Brandon's 3 kids waking him up getting ready for school every morning, and watching cartoons on top of him on Saturday mornings. Joe divorced years ago, his kids grown and married in Michigan.

The more he talked, the nastier his situation sounded. Brandon's wife had left 6 months ago, having gotten tired of his increasingly obnoxious behavior spurred on by his non-stop drinking. Brandon had just gotten out after a week in jail for fighting in another bar a couple of week ago leaving Joe to manage the kids and household. And despite multiple efforts, Joe'd been unable to find a job, despite the “promised land” Brandon had promoted this place as being, especially for a welder in an oil field/manufacturing town like this one outside of New Orleans.

After a couple more beers and another scotch, and more casual conversation, I mentioned a couple of places I'd heard were hiring. And, in a moment of perverse psychic insight (?), I looked him in the eye and told him he'd have a job on Thursday—just 3 days away, making more money than he'd made in Michigan.

Where'd the hell did THAT come from?

(It doesn't happen often, but, yeah, I occasionally get an insight—call it a sixth sense—about people and events. Normally comes complete with those little bells and whistles, like when you experience deja vu. You can't identify what's happening, but you just know it. THAT came without warning. Geez......I'd really like a heads-up before I open my mouth to make a fool out of myself.)

Brandon walked over, having just gotten beaten by my buddy at the pool table, scowling, ready to leave. Joe shook hands, said it was great to meet me, and really hoped we'd end up as friends, since he had none here. I smiled, laughingly told him I'd see him Thursday after he'd accepted his new job, and said goodbye.

My buddy and I ended up up leaving shortly after.

A rather innocent meeting, all in all.

My phone rang late Thursday afternoon—and I was greeted by yelling and almost incomprehensible english. I realized it was Joe—he'd called my number from the bar after begging and pleading with the cutie Main Street bartender to call me. (Yeah, Joe has that upper Michigan adorable singsong accent, and when excited, the words all ran together, bordering on drunken rap slurring.) “MAN-I-got-the-job-this-morning-I-walked-in-interviewed-got-hired-on-the-spot-making-more-money-than-before-I-just-got-off-and-you've-got-to-let-me-buy-you-a-drink-to-celebrate-How-soon-can-you-get-here?” And yeah, he did it all in one breath.

I was just finishing up work, so was at the bar 30 minutes later, and a scotch and soda was waiting on me—crafty bartender saw me pull in the back parking lot. (Told ya he was good!) Joe grabbed me, with the world's largest smile, hugged me, and said he was so glad to have met me. He'd been really down, and was planning on moving back to Michigan at the end of the week if something hadn't turned up. (Why? No jobs there, and family involved in their own lives!)

Brandon was no where to be seen....apparently got drunk, got stopped with a DUI, was driving on a suspended license, no insurance, and was back in jail till a hearing next week and no bail money available. Damn hellion.

We chatted on over a handful of beers for him, and another scotch for me. His excitement was all over him and he now had the look of a contented man.

I was packing up my smokes and phone, ready to head out, when Joe asked if I could drop him off at home. It was on my way, so no problem.

I was walking to my minivan, with Joe laughing all the way. “You drive a minivan? Man, that's nuts! Figured you'd have a sportscar or a luxury sedan like most real estate guys.”

“Yeah, but it's loaded like a luxury car, I can easily carry clients, and with the seats folded, I can do Home Depot runs and carry 4x8 plyboard inside for my woodworking stuff, smartass,” I responded as I reached for the door handle.

Joe was right behind me, spun me around, and laid his liplock on me. “I've wanted to do that from the first time we met—and I've NEVER been interested in a man before!” Then he kissed me again, same passion, same grinding, with the exception of me reaching up with one hand, pulling him in even tighter for the kiss, the other hand playing with his nipples—and getting an encouraging moan/groan/gasp as I used my fingertips to caress and pinch his nipples through his tshirt. Fuck yeah, I love playing with a guy's tits when I know they're hardwired to his dick.

Now you understand my confusion at the opening of this story—I'm making out with a straight guy in a parking lot at a straight bar in the historic district.

We got in the van and headed out. I'd told him to adjust the seat, and get comfortable....and he reaches over to grab and hold my hand. I look over only to see him smiling shyly, sweetly, maybe even blushing a little. He giggled—merely adorable—and said, “I don't know whats going on, but I'm loving this with you.”

We continued to talk and got almost halfway back to his place when his cell rang. Brandon had somehow found someone to bail him out of jail, and was at a bar a few blocks from their apartment, had heard Joe had gotten a job, and wanted to celebrate. Joe asked me to drop him off there.

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure you wanna run with him tonite? You know how he gets when he's been drinking.”

“Yeah, I'm sure—I need to make sure he doesn't get too out of control.” We rode in silence for a few minutes, but he kept his fingers intertwined with mine, occasionally squeezing to show he hadn't totally zoned out, I guess.

Pulling up to the front of the bar, he said what a great night he'd had, how much he enjoyed himself, how he could see us together, in our own place (!), wanted my number, and, after entering it in his phone, leaned over for another liplock. After a breathless 30 seconds of trading spit, we broke it off, said he'd call tomorrow and we'd get together again. And, next time, he'd be sober. A quick peck on the lips from him, and he's out the door and gone.

Confused doesn't even begin to describe me at this point.

He's straight? Gay tendencies buried for years? He wasn't that drunk, so couldn't blame this on the alcohol. And HE was the one initiating the kisses, not me. Hell, as far as I know, he doesn't know whether I'm gay or straight—that discussion hasn't happened yet but I didn't slug him when he first kissed me, so maybe that's a moot point. Hell, I don't know anything at this point.

I get a call a couple of days later (Saturday), he thanks me for the lift from the bar, looks forward to seeing me again, and thanks me for the lead to the job---he's loving it. No mention of the kiss, his future plans for us, nothing but a generically social call.

I called him on Wednesday, asking him to join me and my buddy at Berlin's, and of course, he asked Brandon where it was. “You don't need to be going there—that's a gay bar! I'm not taking you there” shouted from across the room. HUH? It's as straight as any bar I've been to—and I'm an equal opportunity drinker, so I've got a wide variety of bars in my past. Did I mention my hobby of exploring dive bars? What kind of mental leap did Brandon make for THAT discussion?

The confusion only got worse when he called the following Saturday morning—he asked me to come by his place, and to take him to get groceries. Told him I was still in boxers, unshaven, unshowered, and I could do it in an hour or so. He giggled (adorable!), said it'd be fine. When asked about why he was laughing, all he said was, “That's an image!” then hung up.

I hosed off, shaved, pulled on shorts, tshirt, and flipflops (hey, it's Saturday, I can be casual, on a day off, right?) and pulled up to his place. Not one of the nicer places—in fact, it was a dump. Weeds growing everywhere, obviously deferred maintenance on the outside of the building, an old car on blocks in the parking lot. I'm no snob on real estate—hey, it's my business—but I DO notice these things.

Inside—well, I won't bore ya, but the inside was just as bad as the outside—threadbare carpeting, a couple of kitchen cabinet doors barely hanging on I could see from doorway, and walls that were last painted a decade ago. Joe flashed that smile of his, and welcomed me as though it were the Taj Mahal.

I found out why he was so happy, even if were a dump—it was now his own place. Alone. Apparently, Brandon and the kids moved after being asked to do so by the manager. Seems that he'd gotten into a fight with another resident in the parking lot. Of course he'd been drinking. Of course, he'd had a fight. Typical behavior for him. And, since Brandon had the only car, Joe had to ask for my help.

Joe was happy as a clam, even with nothing but a sofa, folding chair, cube used as a coffee table, and TV in the living room, and a bed with a small table and lamp in the bedroom. His own place!

We headed out, making small talk along the way, got his groceries made, and still no mention of the kisses he gave me just a little over a week ago. Got back to his place, unloaded the groceries, and he offered a beer. (So, it's 10:30 am...it's the New Orleans area, it's Saturday.....why not?)

More small talk. I had to piss, since you don't buy beer, you rent it. Went to the bath, but left the door open to continue the conversation. Next thing I know, Joe is standing in the doorway, he's lost his tshirt, so he's barechested, and he's watching my dick in my hand as I piss.

Pert nipples, hair spreading across his pecs, a line of fur pointing to the paradise in his shorts—yeah, you might say I checked him out.

He walked over, looked me squarely in the eye, and said, “thought I'd help with this” as he knocked my hand out of the way and grabbed my dick. Yup, I was already at full mast—who wouldn't be? Thank God, I'd finished my piss...no way would that happen with the hardon I've got now!

And you're already wondering about my dick. It's a nice dick. Nice shape, nice length (a little more than a mouthfull), above average thickness, cut. No, I haven't measured it—always figured the guy a dick's attached to is more important than sheer size. And, no, I'm not measuring it for you. And yeah, my cock is accompanied by oversized, low hanging balls, which I keep shaved, just to make sure nothing gets in the way of them and a hot tongue on those rare occasions when sex DOES happen.

But, I digress. Joe's now standing there, jacking my hard cock, smiling. Leaning in to kiss me. Intense tonsil hockey. When I pull away, he's somehow managed to keep jacking me, and simultaneously get his dick out, and he's stroking it, too, thru the fly of his shorts.

And yeah, it's a nice dick. Maybe a little longer than mine, but can't be sure, since the uncut hood over the head disguises it's length. But, I'm thicker, and my balls are a little bigger. Let's call it a draw. He's leaking precum bigtime, and his balls are pulled up close. Three strokes of my dick later and he's cumming. Breathless, he stops jacking me, zips back up after shaking his cum into the commode, and leaves the john. I haven't cum yet, but that's ok.

I zip up after allowing a couple of minutes for my cock to go down, and walk back into the den. He's now got his shirt on, smiling at the beer, and not looking at me at all.......not a good sign.

Long sigh from him. “You know I like your friendship”, he starts. Uh oh. I know where this is going. And it does.

“I don't know why I do what I do with you. I've never done this with a guy before. Just can't seem to stop it when you're around. Can we just be friends?”

“Sure. You need to be happy with who you are. I'm gay, and comfortable with it. Do what you need to do, buddy. But, I'll remind ya—I didn't start any of this, you did.”

When he heard that last line, his face changed. You'd have thought I'd decapitated his Buzz Lightyear action figure from his childhood. He looked at me with a strange mix of anger, sadness, wistfullness, surprise—and yeah, buried in there, at least for a few seconds, lust.

“I'd better be going...you have things to do, I'm sure. Give me a call sometime, we can grab a beer.” Damn, it DID sound like just a friendly buddy invite—I was proud of myself.

“Great! We can go to Berlin's....Brandon told me he was confused about the place, and it's really not a gay bar.” Still wanna know the back discussion on THAT.

“That's a deal, just lemme know when you're ready”, as I walked to the door and opened it.

With the open door, Joe leans out and kissed me again; again, full tongue, body grab, grope of my ass.....and all I could do was stand there.

Made it to the van—and so confused now I could hardly drive. What the fuck is going on??!?!

(Chapter 2 next week)