Taylor Mountain

TAYLOR MOUNTAIN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I probably should point out that I'm not anti-religious -- every modern religion teaches peace and love, and the repudiation of hate. Unfortunately, there are preachers, rabbis, and imams who claim hate and fear to be the message of their god; and, even more unfortunately, there are people who believe them. So, I'm nowhere close to repudiating the God of Christianity in this story; but hate-mongers who claim to speak for Him are fair game.

This story is gay fiction. It is copyrighted and cannot be reproduced in any medium without my express permission. If you are a minor in your country of origin, don't read.

I have two other series running on Nifty: GLOBAL ENTERTAINMENT appearing in the Incest folder and ILLUSIONS in the Beginnings folder. If these two stories don't give you enough hot vampires and mortals, Starbooks has just released my LOVERS WHO STAY WITH YOU, and that has 28 tales that'll have you offering your neck to the next guy who offers to lick it. You can help Nifty by using its link to A Different Light bookstore when buying this book.

I'd love to hear from you -- tell me what you think of this story, Illusions, or Global Entertainment. Just please put the title of the story in the subject box so that I won't delete your message along with all the spam I get. I'm at vichowel@aol.com.

Dave MacMillan

***************************** 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Hi, Sammy!" Brenda called as I opened the door of my car after I'd parked on Piedmont Avenue. I looked toward 10th Street and saw her walking toward me. It was Monday evening and I'd just gotten home from a day of trying to figure where the latest Bush's continuing recession was taking the economy and how to make it work for my clients.

I wasn't exactly thrilled to see Brenda practically perching on my doorstep. I hadn't yet figured out how I was going to handle her. Especially now that I knew what I liked in bed didn't include her.

She had a monster smile pasted to her face as she walked toward me. It spelled insincerity even at fifteen feet. It reminded me of those smiles you see on the women singing "religious music" advertised on television. I allowed myself to wonder if her smile had always been like that and if I was just now seeing it for what it was.

"You're looking good," I said.

She stopped in front of me and pushed her cheek toward me for a kiss. A chaste kiss, I realized. I hesitated a moment too long but bent to give her a buzz.

She stepped back after my lips had touched her cheek for all of a second. There was no smile now. "You're looking better than I expected," she told me.

I knew better than to touch that one, even with a ten foot pole. There were what she would call unresolved issues between us, and I wasn't willing to start an argument on a busy street during the evening rush hour -- in front of Piedmont Park. I was nowhere close to being that brave -- or foolhardy.

"What're you doing in midtown this evening?" I asked carefully.

"I decided I should spend some time with you," she said. "It's been a while and I thought you might want your woman to spend some time with."

This was sounding stranger and stranger. Since when did I become Alice and Atlanta wonderland? Lewis Carroll keep your pills to yourself.

"Okay..." I thought of Paul and the probability that he'd bop over again in those melon-colored shorts that spelled 'queer in heat' at a hundred yards. "Maybe we can have dinner out someplace."

"That's fine," she said and the fake, million-dollar smile reappeared. "Just so long as I'm with you."

Oh, boy! I knew enough about women that it was obvious that Brenda had a clearly marked agenda she had every intention of following -- to the fucking letter. And it concerned me. Not a pretty picture. It didn't take me any time at all to guess that I was not going to have a peaceful night ahead of me.

I left her in the living room while I went to change. She made no effort to follow me which was not at all like her. I mean, she not only oozed sex, she wanted it too -- like that long ago actress Mae West. Almost any other time this past year, she'd have followed me into the bedroom and hinted that we could afford to be a little late.

I accepted that she was reinforcing her prim and proper persona and guessed that it was supposed to do something for me. Damned if I knew what.

I'd just come back into the living room dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a golf shirt when there was a knock at the door. Brenda stayed where she was but arched an eyebrow in question.

I opened the door to find Paul Estes standing there.

"Hi, Sammy," he oozed vampishly. At least, he was wearing slacks and a real shirt.

"I've got company, Paul."

He straightened up immediately, his masculine persona visibly descending over him. "Hi, Brenda."

I looked over my shoulder in time to see her nod at him. The air around her was so frosty that it almost glittered in the light of the room.

"You two going out?" Paul asked.

I nodded. Brenda didn't deign to indicate anything.

"Get some cat food then," he said, looking from Brenda to me and arching his brows in question.

I noticed that he'd plucked them so that they were just a thin line.

"I saw that Sniggums was almost out this morning when I was cleaning."

"Sure will, Paul," I said, wondering just how inane I would have to make this conversation to keep the peace with Brenda.

"See you both around then." He looked past me at Brenda again. "Have a good time, girl," he called and turned. I started to push the door to behind him.

"We're going to have to find you a real maid service, Sammy," she said, loud enough that Paul had to hear her.

Oh God! What did I do to deserve this?

I closed the door and turned to her. She was wearing that fake smile again, bigger than ever. A Tammy Faye Baker look-a-like! I wondered if I was going to be sick.

"What's wrong with you, Brenda?" I asked, keeping my voice calm. "You used to get along well with Paul."

"He's an abomination, Sammy," she said simply.

"He's what?" I growled.

"He's queer -- and you don't need to get close to that sort any more. God's going to zap them soon enough."

"Brenda," I strained to make my voice conversational, instead of the scream it felt like I needed, "those abominations happen to make a lot of my living for me. I thought you understood that."

"That was before your Daddy died. Now, you don't have to get down into the sewer any more."

"His client list is exclusively family -- those people up on the mountain. It's mine now -- but I'm always open to new clients. And I want to keep my old ones. They're also good friends."

"You don't need that kind of friend, Sammy," she said and it was a flat statement of fact. "Do they have queers messing with their little boys up there on that mountain?" she asked then. Sweetly.

"Hell if I know!" I exploded. "And it doesn't matter, Brenda. You'll never meet them -- or any of my other clients for that matter."

She continued to sit there, studying me, her face that ugly caricature of a smile. "Sammy, are thirty pieces of silver that important to you that you'll give up your soul for them?"

I stared at her.

"Lord Jesus," she said conversationally, closing her eyes.

"Brenda..."

"Save this man, Jesus. He was a good man, a nice man, before Satan wormed his way into his life."

"Brenda, I think you'd better go."

"Help that part of him that hasn't yet been turned by evil to find his way back to the road to righteousness."

"That's it," I grumbled, numbed by what this woman was doing. I stepped up to her and took her arm.

She opened her eyes and gave me that fake smile again. "Pray with me, Sammy. Jesus will help you."

"You're leaving, Brenda. And I don't think you'd better plan on coming back." I pulled her to her feet and aimed her at the door.

"Jesus, take away the blinders Satan's put before his eyes," she said serenely as I pushed her ahead of me. "Allow him to see what he'll become if he continues on this path to hell."

I opened the door and pushed her out onto the landing. "Don't come back, Brenda," I said and shut the door on her before she could turn back to face me.

I wondered how I was going to make up her snub to Paul. I mean, what do you say to a man after your former girlfriend treated him like dirt?

I peeked through the peephole of the door to see if Brenda had left yet. I figured I ought to go and at least try to make things up with Paul.

Paul opened his door almost before I could knock -- like he'd been waiting for me to come over to apologize. And, maybe, watching Brenda leave through his peephole.

"I'm sorry," I told him as he opened the door. "I don't know what got into that woman."

He shrugged. "Women get real bitchy sometimes, Sammy -- it's a part of them being female." He looked me over. "Want to come in?"

"Why don't we go find some place to eat?" I told him. "I want to relax after that."

"Sure." He smiled. "Come on in while I change into something more comfortable."

I stepped inside and tried to ignore Elvis glowering out at me from the plates in the knick knack display facing the door.

"Make yourself at home," he told me as he slipped past me to enter the living room. "Have any idea what you want to eat?"

"Not really. I just want a place that I can be myself." I looked down at my sneakers and jeans and chuckled. "Someplace without a dress code would be a big start."

"I'll think of something," he said and headed for the bedroom.

We ate at a small place across the parking lot from Burkhart's at Ansley Square. It was small all right -- ten booths, a couple of tables, and a U-shaped bar. They served homemade sandwiches and nothing stronger than Atlanta's own Coca Cola. Their clientele was decidedly gay and their prices were definitely upscale midtown. My sandwich was damned good.

It was almost nine when we stepped out onto the sidewalk. The parking lot in front of us was bumper to bumper, and I didn't really feel like going home yet. "What now?" I asked.

Paul stepped closer so that our hands were touching. "Are you ready to see what's going on in Hotlanta's gay night life?" he asked.

"What do you have in mind?" I chuckled. "Strip shows?"

"You've got everything I want to see," he whispered and rubbed the back of his hand against the back of mine. "There are a couple of those, though -- The Metro and Richard's." He hesitated a moment before continuing, his voice neutral. "Want to check them out?"

"I think I'll forego the pleasure." I looked over at him and smiled. "If they're like the girl shows, we'd both need a lot more money on us than we probably have. Besides, they're probably all dogs"

"Actually, there are some pretty good-looking guys dancing at those places," he said, "but they're there for the money, so you're right about the cash we'd need."

"There are bars and the strip joints," I mused. "Anything else?"

"There's Charlie Brown's X-rated Cabaret at Backstreet, ever seen that?"

"An X-rated cabaret -- what is it?" I asked. My socialization to the gay lifestyle seemed to have been pretty undeveloped.

"Cross dressers and transsexuals mostly. A lot of dancing, a little skin."

"Is it any good?"

"Yeah, it is. It's not something to add to your weekly diet, but it can be fun once in a while."

"Would you like to see it with me tonight, Paul?"

"Yeah," he answered dreamily. "I'd like that."

"Then let's do it."

His hand clutched mine. The first time anyone but my Dad held my hand in public, and that was twenty years ago. I looked around us quickly and seeing no one, then over at him.

"The first show isn't until something like eleven thirty tonight, Sammy." He smiled knowingly. "We'd have to find something else to occupy the next two -- two and a half hours."

"At eleven thirty?" I groaned. "The place has to be about ready to close at that time."

"Backstreet's twenty-four/seven, Sammy. You've got insomnia and you're gay, then you've got a place in Atlanta to go. They even make decent coffee."

"How do you know about that?" I asked before I'd thought about it.

"I've been known to suffer insomnia on occasion."

"I'm not into the bar scene. I've got better scotch at home than I'll find in any of them. Want to go home and wait for this cabaret to start?"

"Your place or mine, big boy?" Paul shot back, his voice Mae West husky.

"Mine. I know what kind of scotch I have at home. I don't know what you've got."

"I'll have Famous Grouse at my place tomorrow." He grinned and, wiggling his butt, opened the car door for me. "Until then, we'll mess up your sheets."

* * *

Troy hurried to the front door before whoever it was could start pounding on it again. He pulled it open without thinking of looking through the peephole and found himself facing the first football player from Sunday afternoon through the screen door. He didn't even know the kid's name.

"See you've gotten moved in," the kid greeted him from the porch.

"Shit!" Troy groaned, leaning into the door. "What the fuck do you want?"

The kid grinned from ear to ear. "Now, Reverend Troy," he said as he opened the screen door, "Is that any kind of language for a preacher to be using? What in the world would all the young people at church think if they heard you talking like that?"

"What do you want?" Troy demanded again, a lot less forcibly, as the big football player pushed past him into the house. He saw the paper sack the kid was clutching in his hand.

"It'd be downright unneighborly not to throw you a house warming," the boy told him and held the bag out to Troy. "I brought the beer."

"Beer?" Troy groaned. "You're too young..." Beer and the kid's acquisition of it was not what he was thinking about. He knew what the jock wanted. He wanted the boy out of the house and out of his life. With a mind of its own, his dick began to grow down his leg. He took the

"Big brother bought it for me Saturday night."

"Where are the others?" Troy asked and took the sack, glancing back to the screen door.

"Big brother had to go back to college yesterday..." The kid paused and Troy looked at him to see that he was blushing. "Yesterday was a one-time-only deal for my buddy. He just wanted to know what it was like doing a queer."

Troy's face fell. His hammering heart felt like it'd fallen to his gut. His dick got harder. "Doing a queer?" he groaned. The whole damned high school was going to know about him.

"Yeah," the jock said. "He's a pussyhound all the way. He just wanted to find out if a tight ass was as good as pussy." He patted Troy's shoulder. "Don't worry, he's a Methodist. He won't be around Gospel Baptist to give you any grief."

"He's still in high school, though..."

The kid laughed. "Troy, my man, that boy is as tight-lipped as I am. He won't say a thing about yesterday and how you like dick." He smirked. "I've only got a couple of hours before I've got to be home tonight -- what say to snagging a beer apiece and finding your bedroom?"

Troy shut the front door, knowing with total certainty that there wasn't a damned thing he could do to get the kid out of his life. He just wished his dick wasn't so happy to see the jock.

"How did you know where I lived?" he asked as he led the kid into the kitchen.

The football player laughed. "Troy, Daddy's in charge of building maintenance for Gospel Baptist. He knows where all the property the church owns is."

Troy lay on his side, his dick still tumescent. The kid held him, his dick still hard and buried in Troy's ass. The jock's thick pole felt good inside him; he ground his butt against the jock's pubes. The jock tweaked first one nipple and then the other. Troy ground his butt harder against the boy's groin and his meat began to fill out..

Troy had blown a load while his ass was being pounded. Just as he had Sunday in his office. Only, this time, the sex had felt better -- unhurried and even considerate. He sighed as he decided he could get used to this. It was pretty obvious that the kid had the same idea. He and this jock would just have to keep it quiet was the only thing.

The boy flexed his hips, pulling almost out of Troy before shoving back in. Inch after inch of the underside of his dick rubbed across Troy's prostate.

His pole oozing precum, Troy hoisted his top leg to give the kid better access to his hole. Lazily, he turned into the boy and licked his closest nipple. He felt fingers touch his dick and become a fist around it.

"You're a big one, Troy," the kid said, his voice hesitant, as his movement ceased. "I didn't notice the last time." He stroked Troy a couple of times.

"It's ten inches," Troy mumbled against the boy's nipple and wished he'd start fucking him again.

"With a dick like this, it's weird you like taking it so much."

"I usually top," Troy said, trying to ignore the hard dick in his ass.. "You guys didn't give me a choice yesterday." He looked up at the kid's face. "Fuck me!" he growled.

"Think it's all right to use the same rubber?" the boy asked. "I don't have another one with me."

"Just fuck me and do it now."