“He wants a full nelson,” MacTag said.
Young Tag obliged. From behind me, his strong arms slipped under my armpits and he clasped his hands behind my neck, positioning my mouth perfectly for a straight-on fuck from MacTag, who never took his dick out of my mouth. Young Tag’s dick was rock hard between my shoulder blades.
Was I in heaven or wha-u-u-t?
MacTag was shorter and stockier than Young Tag who himself, being a swimmer, was leaner and not quite as tall as Big Tag, who, I mentioned, was six-four and 225. They were like three studs in the same gene bank and all of them hung like sonsabitches with thirty-two inches among the three of them.
The Tag Team worked my legs, squeezed me in bear hugs, double-teamed me, both of them working their own hard cocks, standing over me, talking dirty to me about their big animal cocks, dropping down with one knee across my chest, showing me the dick I wanted, teasing me with their huge pricks, then raising me up with aerial tactics, hammering me into the canvas like pro maniacs, always pulling their punches, squeezing tight on the choke holds, taking turns beating my face for real with their ten-inch cocks. I crumpled under the “brutal” bull-dogging; but I wanted more.
This was a championship bout of inches.
We must have brawled off and on for almost an hour, which is a really long time when you’re wrestling or being mauled by two strong young cousins acting out on you the pro-wrestling fantasy they’ve played so often together.
Finally, they pinned me. Again. Their weight on me felt like an avalanche of hot young jocks. Their dicks ran stout, stayed hard, pulsed for release. They slap-tagged each other’s hands and knelt up over my face, taking turns fucking my mouth, the taste of each distinctive, yet with that undertaste of the sweet, sweet, sweet Taggart genes.
As much as they liked my mouth, they liked the mirror they were to each other: the heavier-muscled blond wrestler and the lean-muscled blond swimmer, so much alike in their sunny good-looking faces. Kneeling over my face, my mouth tonguing their furry balls, they sucked tongues and fingered nipples and beat their meat, building their passion to a climax.
Down between their thighs, I watched their studplay: kissing mouths and licking tits and rubbing biceps; both pairs of blond balls beginning to swell, rolling and rising, left nut over right, then back again, with the dorsal veins on the underside of their almost-twin cocks growing thick with potency, both cousins totally into each other, talking dirty in short one-word grunts, saying, “dick,” “big dick,” “big blond dick,” “beat it,” “big fucking arms,” “sweat,” “dick,” “juicy hard dick,” “lick,” “suck,” “gonna take you on the mat, motherfucker,” “gonna cum,” “on his face,” “shoot it on his fucking face.” And they did, both cousins, locked in their embrace of arms and chests and faces, beating their meat over my face, squirting the loads of their young, blond ten-inch dicks into my mouth held open wider than a choirboy stuck on the fourth note of “O Holy Night.”
I came without touching myself. I was eighteen too, remember, and this was summer’s end, and nothing, I was certain, would ever be this much fun again. Not even when we became grown-ups.
We fell together into a pig pile of sweat and cum and cock. MacTag and Young Tag dozed with me sandwiched between them. The only sound was the buzz of the Coleman lantern and the crazed moth that circled it.
I heard footsteps come the final three steps up the cabin stairs. The cousins’ two pairs of sleeping blond arms wrapped around my head kept me in traction. The footsteps, heavy even in Reeboks, stepped directly behind my head. I looked up over my eyebrows, and I gulped.
It was Big Tag grinding his twelve-inch keeper in his hand. I could tell he was on the last ten strokes of cumming. He had been watching us all along. He raised his fingers to his lips to keep my silence. His fine big body arched back, displaying his massive cock, one hand working his nipples left and right. Then he stood almost at military brace, and with a silent tremor, holding in his cumshout, wanting to shoot the surprise of his load on the pair of unsuspecting, dozing blonds, gritting his breath, blowing air between his teeth, he shot the load of the father on his son, his nephew and me, thick blasts of cum splashing down on us three boys like hot rain in August.
I don’t need to send you a fish-camp postcard. You get the picture. I have the pictures. Like, I still have them. In my head. In my dick. In my scrapbook. One picture in particular: the four of us, Tag and Big Tag and MacTag and me, standing nearly naked, our big dicks half hanging out of our Speedos, all in a line, with our arms around each other’s shoulders like we would always be best friends forever together.
Verna, I remember, snapped the picture. “Now you’ll have a snapshot,” she said proudly to me, “to remember how it was this summer with you and my three big guys.”
OPENING DAY AT THE COUNTY FAIR
J. M. Snyder
About the only thing that happens here in Boydton County is the annual fair. The first week in October everyone turns out at the fairgrounds, their livestock and crops in tow. There are cattle auctions, hog-calling contests, funnel cakes, chitlins, and Best of Show ribbons given out for everything from largest cucumber to fattest sow. On any given day there’s maybe five hundred people all told, jostling for a place inside the split rail fence that cuts the grounds out from the surrounding fields. Believe me, that’s a crowd around these parts, and all the pickups and John Deeres tear up the dirt tracks that lead into the fairgrounds something fierce. When the fair committee manages to wrangle someone famous to stop on by, the mud and the muck just gets worse. Few years back, they had that guy who played Deputy Enos on The Dukes of Hazzard, and you’d have thought it was Boss Hogg himself. This year my sister Jolene heard it might be Toby Keith, but I think she heard wrong because there’s no way the county could cough up the money to bring someone big like him here. I mean, really.
The day the fair’s set to open, Jolene wakes me up at four thirty, just before dawn. Since it’s still dark out at this hour, it takes her several minutes to rouse me out of sleep. Barely opening my eyes, I groan, “God, Jo. It’s too early.”
“Come on,” she mutters, keeping her voice down so she won’t wake our folks. “Jesse, you said you’d drive me to the fair. Missy’s outside and waiting already.” Missy is Jolene’s prize pig—she won four ribbons three years back and Jo’s been making money selling her offspring at every fair since. Vaguely I remember telling her that I’d give her a ride to the fairgrounds, but right at this moment I can’t for the life of me imagine why.
When I don’t stir, Jolene shoves my bed and hisses, “Jesse!” Then she shucks off her sneakers and clambers on top of my covers, nothing but pointy elbows and skinny legs that poke at me in unpleasant places. Rising to her feet, she stomps about my mattress, narrowly missing my hands and face. “Wake up,” she chants in time with her steps. “Wake up, wake up, wake up.” I curl into a fetal position and squeeze my eyes shut, but what’s the use? She’s won. Still, I hold out until she stops moving and threatens, “I’ll tell Pa.”
Only then do I stretch awake. The last thing I need is my father in here, towering over my bed with his hard eyes, asking in that dangerously low voice of his how a hardworking man like him managed to sire a lazy do-nothing freeloader like me. I’ll never be good enough for him, I’ve learned that lesson over the last twenty years, but that’s never kept me from trying. As I kick Jolene off the bed, I yawn and tell her, “I’m up already.” I hate the triumphant grin on her face—little sisters sure know how to get under your skin. Running a hand through my close-cropped hair, I ask, “You load Missy up yet?”
“She won’t go up the ramp for me,” Jolene admits. “I got the piglets boxed in but Pa said to come get you since it’s your truck. He’s got Mamma’s veggie crates already stacked up by the back tire, too, waiting for you.”
Suddenly I feel the weight of the coming week heavy on my shoulders. Loading the truck, then driving slowly over back country roads for an hour to get to the fairgrounds,
unloading the truck, uncrating the vegetables and the pigs and sitting in the bed of my pickup for long, hot hours watching people pick over both. Six days of that shit. When I was little, the fair used to be as big as Christmas for me, but this early in the morning I don’t have the energy to get that worked up anymore. “God,” I moan, rubbing my face with both hands.
Because I’m not moving fast enough for her, Jolene kicks me in the shin.
By the time we get to the fairgrounds, there’s already a line of battered trucks edging the fence. My mother’s half-brother Gary stands at the open gate, waving vendors on through. He’s county administrator and since it’s an elected position, he makes sure that he’s seen. The day has begun to brighten, but the sky is white from a faint haze that hangs above the grounds like wet laundry. As I pull up to the gates, I lean out the window and holler, “Looks like rain.”
“It’ll hold,” Gary tells me. With a glance at Jolene in the bed of my truck, he adds, “Pigsty’s in the back, you know the way.”
I inch the truck along the main thoroughfare, one foot on the brake pedal as we crawl along behind other trucks between lines of vendors setting up their booths. There’s a tractor somewhere up ahead, I hear the ragged engine churn in the rising heat, and people dart across the strip, dodging between the trucks as they chase after children or livestock that have managed to get away. Twice I hit the steering wheel in frustration but I don’t bother to use the horn—wouldn’t do any good. Instead I glare out the window at anyone who dares to meet my gaze and egg the truck on in little jolts that make Jolene tap angrily against the cab’s back window. I’ve been up for hours and haven’t even eaten yet, it’s getting hot already, the stench of livestock permeates the air, I’m in a sour mood, and I’m thinking that next year there’s no way I’m doing this shit again—when for the first time in ages I see someone I don’t know.
He’s a young man, about my age, shirt off to expose pale skin that hasn’t seen the sun all summer and a back that glistens with sweat as he hammers a couple of two-by-fours into a booth. Light hair the color of bailed hay falls to his shoulders, and I stare at his slender frame, memorizing the flex of thin muscles across narrow shoulder blades. It’s Mrs. Colton’s booth he’s working on—she stands to one side with her hands on her ample hips, cans of preserves around her feet. When she sees me looking, she calls out, “Y’all come by for some of my jelly, you hear? I got something new you’ll want to try.”
“So I see,” I reply. That earns me a smirk from the stranger. Encouraged, I add, “What’s his name?”
Mrs. Colton doesn’t get my drift, thank god. “This here’s Ruddy Johnson’s boy. Davis?” Instead of a sideways glance this time he turns to look at me, eyebrows arched and with a suggestive grin. “Jesse Sadler, his sister Jolene. My, that Missy has some size to her.”
Davis. His eyes challenge me to turn away but I can’t, I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame and I imagine lying beneath him, pinned into submission under that steady gaze. In my mind I can see just how dusky my skin would look alongside his white flesh; I can taste his sweat, smell his scent, almost feel how firm his body would be against my hands. As I stare, he gives me a quick wink that makes my dick go from mildly interested to “Hello!” in one heartbeat. I’m so caught up in him that I don’t even realize the traffic has stopped moving until I bump into the truck in front of us. Jolene pounds on the glass behind me hard enough to rattle it in my ear.
“Sorry!” I holler, cringing at the look the driver ahead gives me in his side-view mirror. God. Davis laughs, the sound boyish and so bright that it makes me want to sink down into my seat and die of embarrassment. As the line of trucks starts to move forward, I duck my head and hide the side of my face behind my hand so I won’t be tempted to look his way again.
When we reach the pigsty, Jolene jumps down from the bed of the truck and wants to know, “What’d you run up on Bubba’s bumper for?”
“You’re only eleven,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m twelve,” she counters. “I know more than you think.” I shrug her comment off, but she warns, “And you best hope Pa don’t see you making eyes at any boys.”
All right, so maybe she is a bit more perceptive than I thought.
Ruddy Johnson is the only person I know of who left the county and didn’t drop off the face of the earth. He still comes back once a year for the county fair—he’s a contractor now, works out of the state capital, but he and Gary went to high school together and folks don’t mind him coming down, seeing as he was once one of their own. If I’d known Ruddy had a son like Davis, I might have let Gary talk me into hiring on to one of his work crews earlier this summer.
As my sister goes about uncrating the pigs, I lean against the side of my truck and wonder how long I can stall putting our booth together in the hopes that Davis will eventually drift down this way to help. I squint back along the main strip, but I can’t pick him out from the people milling about. When Jolene tells me to get a move on, I flick the toothpick I’m chewing at her and haul one crate of tomatoes out of the truck, set it on the ground at my feet, then take another look around. Still no sign of Davis. I can’t believe he’s not somewhere thinking about me right now. Lord knows I wasn’t the only one staring.
I pull out two more crates, these loaded with unshucked corn, and manage to make enough room to get Missy down. Maybe I was wrong about the guy, but just thinking about that wink he gave me sets my blood on fire. As I unload the truck, my mind is tucked in some fantasy world where Davis stretches above me like the sky, his smile the sun. My motions are automatic, my thoughts spun out in a whirl, and I don’t hear the approaching footsteps or sense I’m no longer alone until a voice behind me says, “I was beginning to wonder when you’d get to work.”
The crate I’m holding falls from my hands and breaks when it hits the ground, spilling turnip greens across the muddy grass. It’s him, Davis, standing so close that the greens cover the tops of his sneakers. “Damn,” I sigh, nervous now that he’s right up on me. He’s thinner than I reckoned, wiry, with a strong jaw and light blue eyes that look almost see-through. His hair wisps in dry, sunburnt strands, the front of it pulled back in a tight ponytail to keep it off his face. There’s something randy about him, almost carnal, that hints at long afternoons twined together in the hayloft, strong fingers slipping into tight wet places, tongues hot on hidden flesh. Trying to push that thought out of my head, I sink to my knees to gather up the turnip greens and find myself eye level with his crotch. Oh my god.
Davis raises one eyebrow in interest. “Jesse, is it?” he asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to thrust his hips out at me. “I came by to see if you wanted me for anything.”
Right this moment, staring past the slight bulge in his jeans and up the smooth expanse of his taut, hairless chest, I can imagine half a dozen different ways I want him. But before I can answer, he squats beside me and starts to scoop up the greens I’m neglecting. “Sorry about this,” he says. “You need some help putting up your booth?” As if he’s been talking about that all along. The hands that rub over mine beneath the turnip greens say otherwise.
I manage to find my voice. “Sure,” I tell him, then thinking maybe I should say something more, I add, “Davis. That’s an odd name. Ruddy’s your pa?”
With a nod, he admits, “Davis is my middle name.” He gathers up the greens, my hands stuck in the bundle, so I stand when he does to keep him from letting go. “It’s better than Jeff, let me tell you. I used to be J.D. when I was younger. Some people still call me that. You any relation to that race car driver?”
He means Elliott Sadler—I get asked that a lot. The truth is no, but I shrug like maybe. He thrusts the greens into my arms and then wipes his hands on his hips, a move that pulls his jeans tight across his groin. “You don’t talk much, do you?” he asks, bending down again to pick out two boards from the nearby stack. “My dad couldn’t make it this year, so I’m stuc
k constructing all these booths. How about a hand?” He’s moving too fast for me, running from one thought to the next with the quickness of a silverfish, but when he holds out one of the boards, I drop the turnip greens onto the open tailgate and take it, eager to keep up. “You hold it steady,” Davis tells me, “and I’ll hammer it in. What do you say?”
“Are we talking about the booth?” I ask.
Davis leers at me over his shoulder. “We’re talking about wood. Where do you want me to put it?”
My mouth goes dry with lust and when I speak, my voice barely makes it above a whisper. “Put what?” The booth? The wood he’s holding? His dick? I don’t know about the first two but I’ve got an idea where I’d like that last one to go. “You mean the booth, right?”
Davis just laughs, a delicious sound that washes over me like a summer breeze. “What do you think I mean?” he asks.
I’d really love to find out.
After our booth is up and Davis has moved on to the next vendor, leaving me with aching balls and his promise to return when he gets the chance, I set out as much of the vegetables as I can and stack the empty crates in the back of my truck. The gates open at ten, and for the first two hours, I’m on my feet haggling with customers, trading the crops for cans of jam or preserves, pocketing payments and making change. I keep an eye on Jolene but she’s better at this than me, and by the time noon rolls around, she’s sold all of her piglets and gained two baby chicks in addition to a fistful of dollars. Her fat sow Missy wallows half-hidden in hot mud, but she’s the biggest pig at the fair and it looks like she might bring home another ribbon this year. When Jolene’s piglets are gone, she climbs into the back of my truck and starts up a steady stream of chatter that I tune out while I work. When the first rush finally ebbs away, I plop down on the tailgate with a sigh. “You could help out here a bit,” I tell her.
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