This is the story of a city boy who worked for a summer in rural Alabama shortly after World War II.
The story is fiction and it involves explicit homosexual activity. If such is offensive to you or if you are underaged, please read no further. Otherwise, please enjoy.
I would love to hear your reactions to the story. Anything like a summer adventure you've had? All comments or criticisms are welcome, and will be answered. macoutman@yahoo.com.
Also, please remember that although you may read these stories for free, your contributions keep nifty.org open and without charge. Please give what you can.
SUMMER JOB
by Macout Mann
III
Behind the hotel was a green space which was ideal for throwing a ball around, and in no time my t shirt was soaked. So I pulled it off and draped it into my back jeans pocket. My tan wasn't as dark as the locals, but I'd gotten a nice one at the country club pool, and my body was nothing to be ashamed of.
We played pitch for over a quarter hour and my arm was getting sore as hell, but my vanity wouldn't let me call for a break. Paul Earl finally did suggest we stop and take a walk. "We've exercised our arms enough," he chuckled. "Let's exercise our legs some."
He led the way across what I guess might be called a town square. It was a big graveled area that all the important buildings faced on, and from which radiated all the roads that houses were on. As we were passing the store, a girl about our age came out.
"Why hey, Ginger." Paul Earl greeted her warmly.
"Paul Earl! I aint seen you since you got back," she responded. "You know I'm a married woman now."
"Yeah. Seems like every gal in the county's married now."
She laughed and said that she and Jerry Rogers got hitched last summer. They exchanged pleasantries and then we moved on, but only after she'd said, "Yall come see us sometime, Paul Earl." She had the slow, thick accent that you find only in the southern parts of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi.
Paul Earl didn't introduce me and she didn't seem even to notice that I was there.
As we walked away, however, Paul Earl said "I used to fuck her. And Jerry knew damned well I'z fuckin' her too. He used to be a good buddy o' mine back in school.
"Back then it was easy to find a gal that'd put out."
"Well, I doubt that I'd have come down here," I mused, "if I'd known there weren't any girls here."
"During the war, all the guys were in service," he said, "so nobody made any babies...at least not back home." We both laughed.
We had walked up a path leading into the woods, and finding a small clearing, Paul Earl plopped down on the grass and lit a cigarette. He offered me one, and I told him that I didn't smoke.
"Hell, aint nothing else to do 'round here. Ya might as well try one," he responded. So I did.
Man, that was when I discovered that nicotine was my drug.
Since he'd started talking about sex, Paul Earl continued to boast about his exploits both before and during his hitch in the navy.
He had left Sykes for New Orleans, lived on the streets for a few weeks before finally getting a job on an assembly line. "I shacked up with this old woman," he said. I'd come home from work, eat, fuck that old woman and go to sleep. I'd wake up in the morning, fuck that old woman, eat, and go to work. Fucking was the only thing either of us gave a shit about. That lasted 'til I enlisted. She said she was sorry to see me go, but I know goddam well she'd found another young stud before the day was over.
"Fucking boot camp was somethin' else, though. No place you could even jack off. Made you glad they put saltpeter in the food. Not that it helped all that much.
"When I got on shipboard, it was different, though. On liberty, you could usually find a gal looking to get a dick up her."
I was anxious to tell about my conquests. So I interjected, "At least you had liberty. Nobody looking over your shoulder all the time. I used to go out with this gal, definitely a wrong side of the tracks babe. If my dad knew I was seeing her, he'd have had a bird. I told the folks I was paling around with my buddy, Eric. And Eric would cover for me.
"Maybelle was a girl that'd put out any time you took her to a movie and bought her a sundae afterward. She wasn't the first gal I fucked, but I fucked her more often...and every chance I got."
As we boasted about our exploits, it wasn't difficult to see we both were aroused. Paul Earl made no effort to hide what was straining against his jeans, and their threadbare condition made it that much easier to see. He caressed his groin and announced, "Shit, all this sex talk's makin' me horny as hell."
Freed from conventional restraints, I responded in kind. "Me too," I said.
He casually unzipped and flopped his fat dick out. It was shorter than six inches but a lot bigger around than mine. "I gotta jack off." He was very matter of fact. And he started methodically to jerk on his tool.
I was amazed, yet fascinated that someone, especially someone I hardly knew, would start to masturbate right in front of me without giving it a second thought. That was beyond belief! But without thinking, I emulated his actions. We now were both sprawled on the turf "beating our meat" like crazy.
"You do me and I'll do you," Paul Earl panted.
I came first, gushing all over Paul Earl's fist but fortunately not soiling my new jeans. He urged me to pound his dick faster, and shortly he too was squirting cream onto the ground.
We used leaves to clean our hands the best we could, zipped up, and continued our conversation as if what we'd done was part of the daily routine. It was unreal.
We meandered back to the hotel about four. I was thirsty and remembered the Cokes I'd bought earlier. I asked Paul Earl if he would like to have one. He said he would, and I asked him to get ice from the kitchen and come on up to my room.
As we sipped our Cokes, Paul Earl gave me another cigarette, and our conversation drifted back to the subject of sex. Really. What else was there for us to talk about? The only thing we had in common was that we were both horny guys. But I was also interested in navy life. So I asked him what it was like on a destroyer sailing all the way across the Pacific.
"Pretty dull," he answered. "Lotsa stupid drills. Lotsa jacking off." He paused, and then continued, "We had one seaman that was queer. He liked to get his ass fucked. I didn't mind fucking him ever so often."
His admitting that really bowled me over. I didn't know what to think. Was this guy a damned pervert, or was I just so damned naive I didn't know what the real world was like? Paul Earl was so masculine, yet he admitted having sex with another guy so matter-of-factly that I felt it couldn't be all that weird. So I just asked, "Couldn't you have gotten in a lot of trouble?"
"Yeah, but that sorta shit goes on a hellova lot more than folks think."
Sundays, breakfast was an hour later. Those that had cars, like Sam Taggart and the Hatfields, would sometimes go away, so there were fewer at table; but thanks to Baumgartner, the sawyer, all the food was eaten anyway. There was no church in Sykes, so those who wanted to worship had to find a way to get to Camden. I was indifferent, but at first at least, I had nothing to do on Sunday but eat and drink my Cokes and smoke. The first thing I had done Monday, after Paul Earl introduced me to the joys of nicotine, was to go to the store for cigarettes. In those days your choice was Camels, Lucky Strikes, Chesterfields, or Philip Morris. I chose Camels, because that's what Paul Earl smoked.
Generally, life in Sykes fell into a familiar pattern. Eat, work, sleep, play cards during the week. Weekends? Who knows.
I did get into the habit of calling home every Saturday morning. Both Mom and Dad were usually home, and it seemed easier on Saturday to have Kate, the company telephone operator (who worked from home), place a collect call for me.
During the week I saw Paul Earl only at meal times, and occasionally we encountered each other on the veranda. No reference was ever made to our jack-off session, even obliquely. I thought maybe he was even shunning me, because of what had happened. But the following Saturday, he again asked me if I'd like to "toss a few."
I gladly accepted the invitation, and we again played pitch until we were tired and again took a walk, this time a longer walk. We talked about our growing up. He wanted to know what it was like for me. I tried to be as honest as I could without dwelling on the differences in our social or economic status. I had noticed that he had winced, when I had mentioned that Maybelle was from the wrong side of the tracks.
On the other hand, he openly described the hardscrabble existence that he and his parents endured, as if that was the way everybody lived.
When we returned to the hotel, I again asked him to have a Coke with me. Up in my room he was sitting in my chair and I was on the bed. Quite suddenly he asked, "Was last week the first time you'd ever jacked off another guy, Joel?"
I thought about answering, "Hell no, we used to do it all the time," but I quickly decided there wasn't any reason to lie; so I said simply, "Yeah, it was."
"I sorta thought so at the time," he continued, "but then, when I told you about fucking my shipmate, you didn't act funny or anything, so I thought maybe you'd..."
Paul Earl had finished his Coke and had come over to sit next to me. He didn't finish his sentence. Instead he reached for my dick and gave it a tug. "Hey, man!" I cried. "I'm not queer." I pushed his hand away.
"I aint either," he earnestly replied, "but in this hell hole I stay horny as a motherfucker, and there's ways to get off that feels a damned site better'n jacking off."
He replaced his hand on my groin, and I let him play with my tool, while I gave what he'd said some thought. We were both still shirtless, and with his other hand he began to gently rub my right pec.
"I'd sure as shit be fucking some gal right now, if there was one around I could get into."
I still didn't answer.
"I'll suck your dick, and then you can suck mine, if you want to." He unbuttoned and unzipped me, pushed my briefs down to free my dick, which was now totally hard. He knelt between my legs and took it into his mouth. It felt moist and warm like a pussy. But it felt different too, wonderfully different.
His tongue stroked my piss slit as his lips slid up and down and he fondled my balls adding to the pleasure of it all. "God," I whispered. "That feels so great."
He pulled off and stood up. He undid his jeans and they fell to the floor. Today he wasn't wearing anything underneath. "Now you try," he said.
My brain told me "no!" but somehow I had to feel what it was like. I took his thick tool in my mouth and sucked. Tasted of sweat, but I'm sure mine did too. Didn't cause bells to ring, but what the hell? I sorta liked the feeling.
"That's good, man," he panted. "Now I'll get you off, and then you can do me for real."
He pushed me back on the bed and rubbed down my chest and my gut before he again took my dick between his lips and slowly massaged me to an ecstatic high. "Oh, god, Paul Earl, I'm goanna cum!" I cried. I expected him to pull off, but he buried his face in my pubes, and I erupted. I couldn't believe it. He drank my fucking cum!
I shot off like I hadn't cum in a week. Paul Earl gave me a minute or so to recover, then climbed on the bed and said, "Your turn."
"I don't know that I can drink your stuff," I murmered.
"It aint bad. You might decide it tastes good. If you don't like it, you can spit it out. Try it."
I went back down on his dick and fondled his balls like he had mine. I tried to use my tongue as my lips slipped up and down. He moaned appreciatively as I sucked. His dick seemed to get even fatter and I sped up my ministrations. He didn't give me any warning, but I could tell that he was cumming. I buried my nose in his pubes, just like he had, and his cream begin to squirt into my mouth.
Paul Earl was right. It didn't taste so bad.
We went down to dinner. It was as if nothing had been going on upstairs.
This was also the Saturday that the movie man came. Chairs were set up where we'd been playing pitch. Alabama didn't observe daylight savings time, so it was dark enough that the movie could start around eight. About sixty of us paid our money. The movie was a ten-year-old Tex Ritter western that I would have never gone to see back home, but what the hell? It killed an hour and a half.
Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.