by Rob Rosen
They were quiet for a mile or so before Steve checked his watch. “Look, Jimmy, we’re running about twenty minutes ahead of schedule. There’s a rest stop a mile ahead. We can park and try it out. You know, see what happens. I really would like to fool around, even if you don’t want to fuck me.”
“Can you just park like that? Won’t the cops check you out?”
Steve shrugged. “Even bus drivers need to hit the head sometimes. Nobody’s gonna bother us. How about it?”
“Shit, I’m game!”
The rest area was deserted and poorly lit. Steve pulled in behind the men’s toilet and shut down the lights, although he kept the motor running. Grabbing Jimmy’s crotch, he led him to the back of the bus by the cock.
He turned to the soldier. “Now I wanna see it.”
They undressed like military men, taking care to preserve the creases in trousers and to spread shirts over chair backs. The underwear got thrown aside.
“Man, oh, man!” Steve fingered Jimmy’s big cock. “You could send me to heaven with that thing.”
“Yeah, well, send me somewhere, will you?”
“You bet! Lie down, soldier boy.”
Steve knelt in front of Jimmy as he lay across the bench seat along the back of the vehicle. The bus jockey couldn’t take as much of the hot, throbbing cock as college boy had, but Steve knew exactly what to do with the part he could swallow. His tongue was amazing! Before Jimmy knew it, he was lying on his spine with his legs across Steve’s naked shoulders while the guy applied that magic tongue to his balls, behind his sac, and then his buns. Gradually, Jimmy permitted his legs to bend until Steve’s tongue stroked his hole. The soldier jumped about a half a foot at the contact. Shit! Man! Fucking A! Then Steve pulled him over on top of him in the aisle.
“Touch me, man!” the driver whispered.
“Wait a minute—”
“Just touch it! Please!”
So Jimmy sat on his ankles and stroked the guy’s shapely cock a couple of times. Then Steve pulled him over his body. Jimmy’s cock throbbed against the Marine’s butthole, then he shoved his hips forward. His cock slid into place. The sphincter gave; his head eased inside.
“Shit!” Steve exclaimed.
“Oh, fuck!” Jimmy gasped.
The two of them went crazy. Jimmy discovered what a turn-on this fucking thing was, and taught the ex-Marine what an Army fucking was. Jimmy drove his cock so far into the smaller man that he expected to see it come out his mouth. Steve merely sighed in delight. The soldier experimented. He went slow and easy for a while before slamming Steve hard, until he was about to come. Then he rested while Steve squirmed around doing all the work.
Shit! He’d never experienced anything like this! Jimmy tried to hurt the other man. It was all in vain. Steve took everything he could dish out and begged for more. Near the end, Jimmy jerked completely out of the man, flipped him over on all fours, and rammed himself in the hole up to his balls. The guy just yelled for more! Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Here it came!
“Take my Army cock…up…your Marine ass!”
“G-go Army,” Steve stammered.
Jimmy’s lower half went haywire with more weird sensations than he could handle. He grunted like an animal, and came and came and came. He shot more juice into that Marine than he had in his last six orgasms. Steve moaned for more and more.
Then Jimmy realized that the guy was coming. As Steve shot his load, his ass massaged Jimmy back to life for another round. When it was all over, they both had to crawl to the inboard head and wash each other off. Another five minutes passed before Steve was able to crawl behind the wheel and drive the bus.
The only thing the dark, good-looking driver said as he drove off was, “Marines, zero; Army, one!”
All Jimmy could do was sit there with his eyes glazed over. Then he laughed out loud and whispered to himself, “This goddamned trip has turned into one hell of a bus-fucking-ride.”
NOTHING IN COMMON
Karl Taggart
“It’s not going to work,” Tommy says.
I squeeze his cock. “Yes, it is.”
“You know what I mean. We can’t exist on sex alone. We have to come up for air, and then what do we have?”
“Diversity?” I tug his foreskin as he laughs.
“I’m serious,” he says.
“So am I.”
We’ve had the same conversation dozens of times: in the car, on planes, on buses, in bars, bagel shops, department stores, supermarkets, and once in FAO Schwartz. And, of course, in bed.
“We have nothing in common,” he keeps saying.
“Right.”
He hates it when I do that. He knows that the best way to defuse an argument is to agree. Still, he persists. “Your friends are weird,” he says.
“Yours are boring.”
“You have no style.”
“You have too much.”
We spar like this until we begin to laugh. “It’s never going to work,” he says again.
“Hopeless.”
“Nothing but sex.”
“Nothing.”
We annoy each other on a near-monumental scale but still have a perfect fit, our own homegrown dichotomy. Fucking is our glue. Super glue, in fact.
“It’s not love,” Tommy says one day as he separates laundry. His he folds; mine he tosses into a pile. I lie across the bed, watching the way his thighs flex and the way his cutoffs barely conceal the cock I so covet. He’s wearing nothing else. I listen to his analysis of our misalignment, and I think of pulling him down into the still-warm pile of laundry and fucking him until he shuts up.
“We don’t have to be in love,” I offer, fixed on the ragged blue edge where his cockhead rests. “It’s not required.”
“I won’t be anyone’s fuckbuddy.”
I laugh. “We’re not any kind of buddy.”
He thinks about this, holding a towel to his bare chest. I know it’s warm, that it soothes him. I also know, as does he, that this conversation will have the same conclusion as always. I roll onto my back and pull down my shorts. He resumes his folding but says nothing more. I don’t touch myself—don’t have to—and when I’m hard, he shakes his head with a kind of playful resignation. I’ll never understand why he puts himself through this, why he can’t just enjoy it. He dutifully folds all his laundry, puts everything away, and when he’s closed the last drawer, he drops his cutoffs and treats me to the sight of his gorgeous cock. He’s hard, wet. No matter how incompatible he thinks we are, his equipment believes otherwise.
He climbs onto the bed with a mix of lust and duty, retrieves lube and a condom, suits me up and begins to slather me, working until I’m totally blissed out. Then, without so much as a single kiss, he squats over me, hovering while I take hold of his dick.
Playing with him is the ultimate tease, him poised there, taunting me with that hole of his, that sweet little chute that fits me so well. He squirms, thrusts into my palm, then gradually begins his descent. My swollen sausage slides up into him until he sits, anchored where we both know he belongs.
His expression changes to the one I like most: swimming in pleasure and content with our fit. He squeezes his muscle, and I let out a long groan, then begin a gentle push up into him. He is perfect for me, so goddamned perfect. I wish he could see it.
I run one hand up his chest and rub his hard little nipples, tweaking and twirling, while my other hand stays with his cock. I watch him enter my world, where fucking reigns and nothing else matters. His breathing grows raspy as he raises himself up and begins to bounce, driving my prong up into him with such force that his own starts to squirt cream onto my chest. I love watching him climax, the way come shoots out of him in long streams as he rides me. As always, when he takes this route, he relaxes after he’s empty. Taking advantage of that, I reverse us, push him back onto the bed (and onto my laundry), get his legs up, and drill him with all I have.
God, how I like to fuck him. I pull back and watch his ass swallow my cock, then s
lam into him, burying myself in his steamy tunnel while he lies there, a grin plastered across his face. This is us, I want to tell him, and it’s good—it’s the best thing ever. None of that other shit matters.
He reaches a hand up almost blindly and runs it over my furry chest. I lean in, press myself to him and offer up a kiss. He’s still hungry, satiated but eager, sucking my tongue as I keep pumping him. And it’s that tongue-suck that pushes me over, that gets me tingling and tightening until I pull upright, grab his feet, and spear him to the max, wanting to be up in his bowels when I let go. He squeezes as I pound out my climax, bed creaking with the onslaught. Juice pulses out of me in a torrent. I see his eyes open wide, his expression stunned, as if he’s drowning. It’s always incredible with him—getting off and then some.
Afterward, we lie exhausted, everything quiet. We’ve bought some time. He won’t start in about our differences for hours—maybe even a day. I savor the feel of us.
Because of our differences, we often go our separate ways: him on a skiing trip with his friends, me doing a two-day movie marathon with mine; him at a pricey new restaurant, me hanging out at the deli. Still, all the while there exists a pull that keeps us faithful. I learned early on that Tommy is loyal, and in that way we’re a perfect match, our individual lives enhanced by the power we create in bed. Neither of us can think of anyone else in that regard.
So it’s like a long-distance relationship with a common address, one that I know could continue indefinitely, but that Tommy never stops doubting. And I begin to realize after a while where the real danger lies. It isn’t so much a matter of bringing Tommy around to my way of thinking as it is resisting going over to his.
Four months of supposed incompatibility are enough to undercut even the strongest connection, but I’ve managed to hold fast, manning the fortress with my cock alone. I’ve never experienced anything like this, positive and negative in such equal proportion that they all but cancel each other out. Is Tommy right? Is the relationship doomed simply because it rests on the most basic—and, in my eyes, the strongest—of needs?
“We’re Felix and Oscar,” he says.
“You think I’m a slob?” I ask, feigning indignation.
“You have to admit, you’re not exactly a neatnik.”
“No, I’ve been spared the malady. One in the house is enough.”
“The one who takes your cup out of the sink and puts it into the dishwasher. The one who picks your towels up off the floor. The one—”
“The one who never lets me forget,” I cut in.
He goes into a pout, one that I adore. I often provoke him just to see his mouth draw into that sexy little pucker. He’s like a little kid trying to act the grownup, and so cute when he fails. I slide up behind him, press against his round little butt. He’s at the kitchen sink scrubbing a pan, and I think about taking him while he’s in the soapsuds, doing my thing while he does his.
“Let me do this,” he says.
“Let me do this.” I grind his ass, my cock already hard.
He doesn’t stop his washing. I don’t stop either. I pull down his pants, kneel, and get my tongue into his crack. He keeps on with his pots and pans as if nothing is going on, but when I reach around and grab his cock, he takes a wider stance. I’m slurping and prodding as he starts to squirm. His soapy hands are out of the water now and gripping the sink. I let go of his prick and get my pants down, then pull back and look at where I’m headed. His rim is shiny, well lubed. I reach over to a drawer and grab a condom. (I’ve got them stashed all over the house.) I suit up, grab some of his suds, soap my dick, stand up and spear him. He cries out, and I know he’s forgotten his dishes, that I could do anything with him now—the dirtier the better. He pushes back into me, and for a second I stop, let him do the work. He’s riding my dick, and I tell him, “Go, cowboy.” He’s mine now, we’re there again, but when we’re done, when jizz is running down the front of the kitchen cabinet and the rubber is full, he starts doing dishes again, bare-assed and happy. I laugh, kiss his cheek and go watch TV.
At our six-month anniversary, Tommy says we should break up. He’s lulled me into a false sense of security by not pointing out our differences for a whole week. I, happily fucking away the days, don’t have a clue as to what lies ahead. All I can come up with is, “Why?”
“Because I want to fall in love and I can’t do it with you. I want—I need to find the person out there who will understand me.”
“I understand you.”
“No. You try very hard, and I appreciate the effort, but you don’t get down inside.”
We’re across the breakfast table. I pause, pass him a look he knows all too well. “The hell I don’t.”
“I don’t mean that way, and you know it. That’s a good example right there. I’m talking love; you’re talking sex. Nothing in common.”
“Do you know how many times you’ve said that in the last six months? Do you? About a thousand. And every time I’ve handled it, not gotten angry when I really could have. Doesn’t that say something?”
He ponders this for a moment, then offers, “It says you’re very patient, and I appreciate that.”
“How kind of you.” I stand, gulp down the last of my orange juice and walk away. And I keep walking. Out the door. Down the street. Onto the beach, where I continue until I’m at the next beach and the next. Finally, the coastline stops me. I look up at the bluff and want to climb up it and throw myself off. No, I want to throw Tommy off. I sink to the sand and sit for a long time, solving nothing. When I finally rise, I know only that I can’t live without him. Beyond this, there is no precedent, no guideline. I dread going home.
It’s late afternoon when I return. He’s gone. Off to find true love, I suppose. I open a bottle of wine and drink most of it as I picture him on his quest. I work at romantic images, see him running across golden fields to his one and only, everything hazy and soft like he’d want it, sun shining, music playing. Totally unreal. His expression is a kind of enthralled expectation, like when he reaches this guy, everything will fall into place. Then I see the guy’s cock, Tommy clutching at it, and I have to shut off the picture. I try not to think of Tommy anymore after that. It’s impossible.
I awaken in bed alone and replay the previous day, except now it’s accompanied by a headache. The bed is huge without Tommy. I wonder where he is, where he’d go to find true love. I’ve never pursued it like he’s doing. For me, it has to happen as I go along. I spend the day at the beach looking at guys, but it’s Tommy I picture with them, not me.
He’s gone for two weeks, during which time I barely exist. I move along with minimal effort, consumed by his absence. By the sixth day, I’m trying to buy his line of reasoning, forcing myself to accept the nothing-in-common thing. It doesn’t go down easily.
At ten days I’m a wreck, but I also know something I didn’t know before: I love Tommy. Sex alone couldn’t make me feel this bad. Then, on day fourteen, I’m at the gym and in he walks. He doesn’t see me at first, and I’m wounded because he’s all I can see. I’m on the StairMaster, which seems appropriate, working up a sweat but going nowhere. And then he turns, and it’s like we’re replaying the first time we met, experiencing the ultimate déjà vu moment.
For once we say nothing. Things buzz around us while we stand looking at each other. When he starts to speak, I shake my head. He grins, follows me out.
I’m sweaty and he’s not. I think about that as we walk to our cars. Fear pokes at me, tries to get a hold, but I shake it off and head home.
Inside the apartment, we are once again ourselves—that perfect fit. I kiss him, take his hand, lead him to the bedroom and undress him. He looks around like he’s new, and I think maybe he is. Maybe the two weeks have taught him something. I run my hands down his naked body, trace his hips, his round little ass. I squeeze his buttcheeks. He finds my cock, pulls on it gently as I kiss him.
When I get him into bed, he can’t get enough, and I wonder, as I lick
his every inch, if he’s been alone the whole time. He comes while I’m sucking a nipple, his dick erupting in my hand, but minutes later he’s hard again, climbing my leg, begging. It’s then, as I truly have him, that I tell him, “I love you, Tommy.”
“Do me,” he rasps, and as much as I want to, I hold myself hostage. “Not until you tell me how you feel—and none of that nothing-in-common bullshit. I want you to tell me the truth.”
“Fuck me,” he says. He’s trying to climb my dick, but I roll him onto his back, pin him.
“What happened out there?” I demand, and he shakes his head like a little kid defying a parent. “It didn’t work, did it?” I say. His mouth draws up into that pout of his, but it’s different now, and I see that he’s about to cry. My heart seizes up and I realize what’s going on. “What are you afraid of?” I ask.
When he doesn’t reply, I kiss his cheek, taste his tears.
“Love doesn’t have to hurt, you know,” I tell him. “The best thing about it is that there are no limits. Two people connect, and we do that, Tommy. We do that.”
He looks into my eyes, and I’m struck for the zillionth time by how gorgeous he is—except now he’s vulnerable as well. It’s a devastating mix. “We’re so different,” he says.
“Opposites attract.”
He takes this in, and I watch him try for an argument, but all he does is utter a long, drawn-out sigh. “I give up,” he finally says.
“Meaning?”
“I…I love you.”
I consider this for a second, then pull on a rubber, lube myself and run a gob into him. He’s on his back now, legs high, and just before I take him, I remind myself that we can go on. I ease my dick into his chute as he groans, squeezes his muscle. It’s his way of telling me he hasn’t had anyone else the entire two weeks.
As I thrust in and out of him, I tell myself our love is enough to carry us. I concentrate on this, repeating it like a mantra, hoping that maybe he’ll absorb it, that maybe my dick can get the message through. It’s crazy, I know, but it honestly feels possible.
