They were eager to please; the joint was finished, and they were all too wasted to remember anything by that point. The leader, who’d brought me down there in the first place, sat off to the side at the edge of the sofa and watched; the other three sat next to each other. I slowly went down on my knees and began to unlace the football pants of the one who had been behind me dancing. I pulled his pants down to his knees; a nine-inch erection popped out because he wasn’t wearing underwear. I removed his shoes and pulled his pants off altogether. While he moaned, and the others grabbed their crotches, I ran my long red fingernails up his dark hairy legs, took hold of the erection and began to slurp and suck as though I hadn’t been fed dick in years. He tasted salty and smelled like vinegar and cheese because his balls had been sweating during the party. With my dark-red lips wrapped around the head, I began to jerk the shaft with my right hand. He blew a load into my mouth within minutes, and I gulped the whole thing and sucked out the last drops so there wouldn’t be any mess.
I wasted no time in repeating the same act with the guy sitting next to him, which took even less time (horny, drunk boys get off fast, I learned). But when I reached the third, who had already pulled his dick out for me, the leader at the edge of the sofa leaned over and whispered, “I want to fuck you, baby.”
My eyes bugged as though I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, and he seemed to sense the fear.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “I know you’re not a girl. I knew it when I asked you to come down the basement. I just wanna fuck you, please.”
“But what about him?” Though the first two were already snoring, the third guy with heavy, glazed eyes waited for his blow job, too. His dick stood out from the opening of the football pants, and he was jerking off. He was slightly overweight (the linebacker type) but had really sexy, sloppy bull-sized balls I couldn’t wait to lick.
“Just get up, lean over the arm of the sofa, and spread your legs,” he said. “You can suck him off while I bang you. I know you want it.”
We both stood, while the last guy watched as though he couldn’t predict what would happen next, and I leaned over the arm of the sofa and wrapped my red lips around the head of his cock. He didn’t care what happened after that; he only wanted to get sucked off so he could go to sleep, too. His dick was curved and long—not as thick as the first guy and not as sweet as the second, but I couldn’t help liking the way it hit the back of my throat when I sucked all the way down to his sour ball sac. It occurred to me that I was even more turned on now that the leader knew I was really a guy.
While I sucked the third guy off, the leader pulled his fat cock out, lifted my black taffeta skirt up to my waist, and spread my asscheeks. He blew a huge wad of spit; it hit my hole and he pressed the head of his dick against it. He rolled the head around for a moment to lube me and then slowly inserted the tip. I arched my back and spread my legs; he grabbed my knees and lifted them with both hands so that he could pound away. With my legs bent at the knees and high heels in the air, he fucked me like a machine, and I moaned and continued to suck off the football player on the sofa. The harder the one behind me hammered, the harder I sucked the cock in my mouth.
Again, it didn’t take long for either of them to reach climax. But something happened to me, too, that I hadn’t expected. The one behind me began to hit a sensitive spot, and my orgasm began to rise. And as the guy on the sofa grabbed the back of my blonde wig to let me know he was coming, the one behind me blew his load up my hole, and I shot my load into the black thong. While I slurped up and swallowed the last drops from guy number three, and the leader was still depositing his last drops of seed up my ass, I marveled at how I’d had an orgasm without touching myself. He remained inside for a few moments while I gently licked the third guy’s sloppy ball sac.
Then he pulled out fast, helped me to my feet, and offered another drink. The others were passed out; the minute I started to lick and suck the third guy’s balls, he too had begun to snore.
“Why not,” I said, taking a couple of long swigs from the bottle of vodka. He put his arm around my waist and pulled me to his chest, drops of him now trickling down my bare legs…as the room began to spin.
“You certainly do deserve it,” said the leader. “You worked hard tonight.”
I smiled, but nearly lost my balance; the last drink of vodka had now put me over the edge, too. “You were wonderful. You made me come without touching my dick.” I reached down and cupped his dick and balls in my hand.
“You have a great hole, baby,” he said
I passed out right after that and don’t remember anything until I woke up about three hours later, facedown across two snoring football players who wore nothing but jockstraps; one great athletic hand was resting on the middle of my ass…my face pressed to the crook of a hairy ball sac. Though I did take a couple of quick sniffs, and the tip of my tongue couldn’t help licking the guy’s tangy sac for a few minutes, I suddenly became terrified they would wake up and beat the shit out of me. I slowly rose, while the guys continued to snore, and searched for my black beaded bag. The basement was dark; I couldn’t find it anywhere.
A deep football player voice said, “Looking for this?” His eyes were heavy as he waved my bag in the air.
“Ah, yes,” I said, still trying to remember everything that had happened that night.
He handed me the bag. “No kiss good-bye?”
I looked at him and smirked. I’d just remembered he was the kinky boy who knew I wasn’t a woman. “Why didn’t you beat the shit out of me last night?”
“They really thought you were a girl, and I’m into it—chicks with dicks,” he said, trying hard to speak clearly. “Last night was really hot, man…maybe we could hook up again sometime, just you and me.”
I reached into my bag, pulled out a card with my email address, and handed it to him. “But the ball is in your court, buddy,” I said. “This could be a once-in-a-lifetime thing for me. I don’t usually do this, and I’m not sure I ever will again. Just wanted to have a little fun on Halloween.”
He smiled, and then put his hand up my dress. “I’ll get in touch. This can be our little secret. But next time I want to see you in red high heels with a red garter belt.”
I leaned forward and kissed him good-bye. He put his hand up my dress one more time, and then I quietly left while the other football players were still sleeping.
A ROOFER’S WORK
Shane Allison
When wet chunks of sheet rock fell from the ceiling of our Pepto-pink bedroom, Rashaan was pissed, and vowed it was the final straw. We were fed up with putting buckets and pans under cracks in the ceiling where brown rainwater seeped in through worn shingles and plywood, soaking the carpet, giving the entire house a rank mildew smell, an aura of dank-ness. Because of all the work that needed to be done, our relationship was strained. It was going to cost us thousands in repairs, plus remodeling the kitchen and overhauling the old toilets. You can’t live in Hurricane Country with a bad roof. Florida had four last year, back to back.
Rashaan used to greet me with a blow job every morning; now he’s out the door before I am. Our sex life is soggier than the house. I give myself hand jobs between cloaking the holes with black sheets of plastic and duct-taping leaks.
I finally convinced Rashaan that Sammie, our neighbor, an all-around Mr. Fix-it, could come over and repair the roof. Rashaan had been adamantly opposed, saying, “’On’ want these nosy black folks knowin’ our business.”
I’ve known these so-called nosy black folks all my life. Mr. Freddy used to take me to school if I missed the bus. I used to buy grape frozen cups from Mrs. Emma up the road for ten cents. I played basketball with Lynwood before he started boozin’.
Sammie does everything from cutting down rotted tree limbs to overhauling car engines. He used to work with my daddy doing odd jobs for old ladies. He has a sanctified wife and two kids, a son in grade school and a daughter at Rickards High.
&n
bsp; I should have hired someone who didn’t live in such close proximity, someone who didn’t know us, after all. But how was I supposed to know Sammie and me would end up messing around? I’m no psychic, and I sure as shit don’t have a crystal ball in my pocket.
The morning Sammie arrived, he startled me out of a dream, which I didn’t mind so much considering most of them are bizarre. It was around nine-ish, way too early for someone who had worked two shifts at CVS the night before. I squinted at the beams of light that poured through the verticals of the den’s windows.
“Somebody’s at th’ door, ’Shaan.”
I looked around with crusts of sleep in my eyes. The only sign of Rashaan was a wet towel from his morning shower and a cold, half-empty cup of black coffee sitting on the table, with no sign of a coaster beneath it. I stumbled into the living room.
“Ow. Fuck!” I yelled. I’d stubbed my big toe against the metal leg of the coffee table. It throbbed as I limped to the door. The cold linoleum in the built-in porch was freezing beneath my feet. I sported a hard-on ’cause I hadn’t taken my morning piss. It was a bitch to keep restrained in my boxers. I usually don’t wear them ’cause they ride up in the crack of my ass and don’t provide any support for my package, unlike the snug of undies.
I opened the door and squinted again at the cruel light. With my blurred vision, I could barely make out that it was Sammie on my doorstep, dressed in a T-shirt with cutoff Dickies. The white van with SOUTHERN FIXIN’S painted on the side in a large, blue, fancy font, was a clue. Sammie is the hottest hunk in Woodville, nothing like the tobacco-spitting, dick-grabbing Confederate rednecks and store corner drunkards who populate the place.
“Wa’sup,” he said in his Southern-fried baritone. “Charlynn gave me ya message ’bout th’ roof leakin’.”
“Yeah, th’ shingles in th’ garage.” I stumble-stepped over a row of boxwoods and hoisted up the garage door—something else we have on our “Fix This” list. The shingles were stacked between the lawnmower and the Weedwhacker, both of which Rashaan and I rarely used.
Sammie bent to retrieve the first stack of shingles, giving me a swell view of his ass. I knew they weighed a ton. I used to help Daddy unload them off his truck.
“Ya need some help?” I asked.
“Naw, I got it.” Last thing I wanted to do was help him haul those damn things up a twelve-foot ladder. I was fine gawking at his ass, the glistening Dutch-chocolate muscles of his arms. Droplets of dry tar tarnished his boots. I don’t think I’d ever seen him clothed from the waist up before. He was usually shirtless, cut and sweaty, either mowing his yard or tinkering around under the hood of someone’s candy-painted Cadillac. Sammie would come up for air caked in motor oil, looking like something out of a Herb Ritts photo.
It never occurred to me that he was into guys. I mean, here was a dude who lifted weights and held pit bull fights.
I left him at his job to go drain my dick before I had to perform my version of the pee-pee dance. On my way to the john, I spotted a note on the coffee table where I’d stubbed my toe, written on pink paper: Gone to grocery store, be back in an hour, love, Rashaan.
As I milked my dick, the doorbell rang again.
“Fuck, what is it now?” I muttered. I tried to speed things up, but you can’t rush a pee. “U’m comin’,” I yelled. I tapped the last droplets from my dick and pushed it back into the plaid slit. I missed Rashaan’s blow jobs at the crack of dawn.
“Hey, sorry t’ botha ya, but can I trouble ya fuh a glass of wata?”
“Oh, my bad, man. Come on in. I should’ve asked if ya wanted some t’ drink.”
The door was rotting off the hinges due to rainwater and termites. Sammie stepped in and wiped his feet on the flower welcome mat. He already reeked like a brute.
“I don’t think I’ve been here since ya mama an’ daddy died,” he said.
“Sorry ‘bout th’ mess,” I said. Rashaan had left the air conditioner on through the night, so at least the house was cool. Sammie trekked behind me, through the den, to the kitchen.
He pulled a chair from the table and took a seat.
“I got beer, wata, juice, an’ ice tea.”
“Tea is good.”
I pushed past the bottles of Corona, Orange Ocean fruit punch, and expired low-fat chocolate milk, slid the pitcher of sweet tea out of the fridge, and set it on the counter. I opened the cabinet, reaching past sandwich plates, cereal bowls, and pie saucers, and grabbed the tallest glass I could find.
“Ya want ice?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I like t’ suck on th’ cubes.”
My dick rose to his words. I prayed it wouldn’t show itself. I poured until I filled the glass to its rim with tea.
“Gettin’ hot out there?” I asked, dropping in ice cubes.
“Damn hot. Not hot. Damn hot.” He laughed.
“’On’ know how ya do dat kinda work every day.”
“There’s good money in roofin’,” he said, after a gulp of tea. I grabbed the last Sunny D for myself from behind leftover pepperoni pizza.
“Yoon get scared up there on them roofs?”
“U’m use to it,” he said, looking at me. I looked back, before my gaze dropped to his bulge. My own dick swelled. I’ve always wondered about Sammie’s size. Growing up, I use to fantasize about having sex with him, that country dick up my ass.
Good thing I was sitting down. I didn’t want Sammie to know that he was responsible for my sudden hard-on. Sweat trickled down his goose-bumped neck as he drank the tea, cubes kissing his lips. My erection could have been avoided if Rashaan had blown me instead of running off to buy TV dinners, his favorite food, even though I warn him that if he gets fat I’ll leave his ass.
Sammie drank the rest of the tea and set the glass on the table.
“Can I use ya bathroom?” he asked as he rubbed his hands along his thighs, drying off condensation.
“Lemme show ya where it’s at.”
He followed me through the living room and the den. I could feel his eyes on my ass.
“It’s right through dat door.”
“’Preciate it.” Sammie patted me on the back, but a love tap on the butt would’ve been better.
Rashaan was always saying he’d be gone for an hour, but it was always more like two or three—or all day. As I watched cardinals fluttering around the yard through the den window, I listened to Sammie’s piss splash. The door was slightly ajar. Sammie was silhouetted against the white shower curtain, with pastel butterfly prints Rashaan had picked out at Bed Bath & Beyond. His dick was cloaked by an uncut sheath that glistened with sweat beneath the bathroom light.
The last uncut dick I’d sucked was attached to Kevin, a substitute teacher who left the worst taste in my mouth. After him, I swore never again, no more uncut skin.
Sammie flushed the toilet then came out fastening his shorts. I asked him how often he worked out, hoping he hadn’t noticed my Peeping Tom-foolery.
“’Bout six times a week. Why?”
I told him I wished I had a body like his. He stood towering, over me like a Southern Hercules. Sammie asked if I had any weights.
“Th’ only thing I have is an exercise bike I bought from th’ flea market. I wanna build up muscle mass,” I told him.
“Then ya need t’ getcha some weights.”
I asked if I could feel his muscles.
“Go ‘head.” His biceps were as hard as sledges. One was branded with a Greek symbol from some kind of fraternity.
“Where you went t’ school?” I asked, as I squeezed his guns.
Sammie told me that he was a graphic arts major at Howard University.
“So what happened?”
“I had t’ quit, ’cause I couldn’t afford th’ tuition, so I came back t’ Tallahassee an’ got a job movin’ furniture t’ save some money fuh school, but it ain’ pay nothin’. Lynwood hooked me up wit dis roofin’ job. They pay thirty dollars an hour.”
“How long ya bee
n workin’ there?” I asked
“Fo’ years.”
Dirty thoughts of his dick were dancing in my head. Leaky roofs, shingles, and even Rashaan were the last things I was thinking about. He tugged at his package. “Well, lemme get back t’ work.”
“Lemme know if ya need anything.”
As I cleaned the kitchen, scrubbing burnt skin from last night’s baked chicken off the roasting pan, I could hear Sammie. His goose steps on the roof were thunderous—an unearthly invasion. Bored by the kitchen cleaning, I went out to see if he needed anything. It was almost noon and hot as hell. I walked to the side of the house where the ladder stood.
“How’s it goin’ up there?” I hollered. No answer.
I figured he couldn’t hear me with all the hammering. I decided to climb to the roof, even though I was hardly dressed for clambering up ladders. I was halfway up when it started to slide along the edge of the roof.
“Sammie!” I yelled. The sun burned my eyes. His body blocked it.
“Wha’choo doin’?” he laughed.
“Man, help me up. This thing’s ’bout t’ fall.”
“Gimme ya han’,” Sammie said.
The ladder kept giving as I reached up for him.
“U’ma fall.” I told him.
“You ain’ go’n fall. Jus’ reach up,” he said. I was scared to let go.
“C’mon, I gotcha.” I finally entrusted myself to him.
“Pull me up,” I begged. Sammy grabbed my arms and hauled me over the brink of the roof. I clutched him as I made my way to safety. Just in time, too. The ladder crashed to the driveway below. I was scared shitless, life flashing, kissing my ass good-bye, and all that.
“You all right?” Sammie asked.
Hell no ain’ all right, I thought. “Yeah, I jus’ need t’ catch my breath,” I said. “You ain’ hear me callin’ you?”
“Uh-uh, no.”
We looked to the ground at the fallen ladder.
“How we go’n get down?” I asked.
“I’ll jus’ push ya off th’ roof t’ get th’ ladda,” he joked.
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