by Layla Wolfe
He threw my wrist away. “Oh, don’t talk to me about fucking guilt! You forget I’m Jewish. I don’t think my parents ever heard the filthy, disgraceful story about me and that other man in bed, if they did, I’d never hear the end of it and would probably be disowned by now, but the burden of fucking a priest?” Spearing his fingers through his soft hair, he looked wide-eyed in horror at the toothbrush holder. “They’d keel over of heart attacks.”
It was my turn to take his hand. I treasured it like a small bird against my damp chest. I caressed his thumb between my fingertips, slowly, salaciously. “Fremont, I admit I want you. Not just for a quickie, because if I wanted that, I’d go to Quartzsite.”
“Where in Quartzsite—”
“I want us to be out and proud, as they say. I’m taking the initiative and the responsibility for your burden. I can handle it.”
I let go of his hand long enough to press my fingertips against his lips. I didn’t want him protesting. I was going to do what I wanted to, and he had no say in it.
Fact is, I didn’t plot out beforehand my moves. If I would have thought about it just one fraction of a second longer, I never would have fallen to my knees in front of Fremont Zuckerman.
Before I could stop myself, I was mouthing his penis through his jeans. Gripping his hips in both hands, I fulfilled my oral need by gumming the head, the corona, the shaft, the balls. Fremont fell back against the sink and thrust his hips at me. Spreading his thighs, he even lifted one boot off the ground, the better to give me easy access to his ballsac. I was in heaven.
I didn’t ordinarily pay this sort of respect to other men. Normally it was the other way around. But for some reason Fremont’s easy grace, his confusion about his identity, urged me to pay him this sort of esteem, this tribute to his masculinity. Normally I was all about the game of “forcing” another man to give oral tribute to my own dominance. Today, for some reason, the tables were turned. I was a switch.
I never knew that about myself.
But one couldn’t deny the thirsty way I mouthed his pulsating member through the jean fabric. His crotch soon became unbearably warm as I exhaled hotly, licking the soaking fabric. Our fingers clashed at his belt buckle, both fighting for the prize of undoing it. He won the buckle and I won the metal buttons that were practically bursting with the expansion of his pecker.
In a flash, it was burning in my hand, nearly burning my palm with its length and breadth. A silly thought zipped through my brain as I bathed the burning flesh with my tongue. I’m sucking a Jewish cock. The thought turned me on even more. I wrapped my long tongue around that taut penis, using the drops of semen at the slit to massage the head, tight and slick in my hand.
Fremont yanked his jeans further down his muscular thighs so he could part them with ease. He grabbed a handful of my hair and twisted it as he held his breath. His penis twitched in my mouth when I swallowed it. How incredible it was, being in the exact same position the seedy sheriff had been in recently. Except I was going to pleasure this man to even greater heights.
I wanted to. I had to. I had to beat the experienced sheriff at his own game if I wanted to entice Fremont into my erotic clutches.
I sucked, I slathered my tongue around his width, I gulped. I deep throated his member so heavily I swore I felt it bang against my tonsils.
His bare hips shivered beneath my fingertips. More drops of precum squirted down the back of my throat. I pumped my head up and down, up and down, so fast I became dizzy. His penis was rammed so deeply down my gullet it was hard to breathe. I wanted to devour the elixir of his sex. It came in a sudden gusher I wasn’t expecting.
Ah. The sweet flood of semen spurted down my gullet. I had to suck and swig to keep up with the warm surge.
Fremont’s hips trembled as he fought to gasp in air. I had never gulped such a heavy load in my life. Encircling his penis by the base in my fist, I could feel the channel on the underside with my thumb. It pulsed in time to the spurts, and I groaned as I swallowed.
As the flood slowed and my consciousness began to clear, I became aware of voices in the sitting room. Balls. Was the sheriff waiting for me to say something about Klah before shoving him in the paddy wagon? But the only voices I heard were Ogden and Haven, discussing something in low, studious voices. I lapped the last drop of come from Fremont’s sweet slit and laid a line of soft, sucking kisses against the side of the heavy member before I tried to stand.
Wow. I hadn’t realized how dizzy I was. Fremont chuckled and grabbed ahold of my biceps, pulling me up to face him. His eyes were dazzled, as though hit with a fistful of stars.
“I’m speechless,” he whispered. “I have no fucking words.”
I tried to make light of our predicament. “That’s a good thing, because I think we’re wanted outside.”
We stared into each other’s eyes like two idealistic lovers, which I guess we were, at the moment. Fremont even lifted one shaky hand and stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers.
I’m sure I would have uttered something completely asinine, but we were in luck. Galileo knocked lightly at the door.
“Uh, guys? Are you done in there? I really have to pee.”
We both burst into laughter, breaking apart from each other. “No problem,” I called through the door. “Just getting Fremont dry.”
We went through the doorway sheepishly. How much had anyone figured out? Galileo seemed a bit naïve in the ways of the world, although believe it or not, I’d heard he was quite handy with the ladies back at his home in Free and Easy.
It was hard to interpret Galileo’s grin, much less his next statement as we filed on past, eyes on the floor.
“How nice,” Galileo gushed. “It’s nice to see you are each other’s best friends.”
What in the name of arse? Was he jesting us because we’d both been silent in a bathroom together for ten minutes? Did I have a semen stain on my cassock? Was my penis so stiff under my jeans it was bulging out my skirts?
We managed to gather our wits and have a coherent conversation with the two bikers and Toby about Klah’s fate. But underneath my soothing, measured, sensible words, I was churning with emotion and lust, unable to wait to get my hands on the cherished scientist again.
CHAPTER TEN
FREMONT
Noel told me that Toby had become suicidal.
It wasn’t just being tossed in the flash flood creek. That was the pinnacle that got the Zealots together, to do what they did. But Toby had been bullied for a year or more, and not only by Klah. Klah’s posse at school would take over even without him to continue his legacy. I could see where a kid could become suicidal. Toby dealt with fingers fused together, as Ogden used to have before Dr. Moog separated them surgically. His knees often gave way, so even if his hands had been okay, he would have been no good at sports anyway.
Nerdy kids could fly under the radar, as I knew, by hanging out in the audio-visual room, the yearbook room. But Toby wasn’t a born nerd. He had aspirations of coolness, I could tell, by his worn old Motörhead T-shirt. His long hair hung in one unwashed braid down the middle of his back, and he had the requisite one earlobe “gauged” so large you could see right through the flesh tunnel.
Toby had tried, it was obvious. And he was still being thrashed by the gangbanging kids.
I went with them out of curiosity. I rode two up on Noel’s “bitch pad,” I found out that rear seat was called. Only there probably hadn’t been too many pussies on Noel’s. His ride was called a Harley Fatboy, I learned. After the incident in his rectory bathroom, things were obviously more intimate between us. We were a far cry away from coming out or anything radical like that, even if we had wanted to, which we didn’t.
But me riding behind him, holding onto him by the hips, didn’t scream “gay.” Especially since he was wearing his dog collar, his cassock. I couldn’t picture him in any other uniform.
Turk and his partner Locke, who ran some sort of bail jumping business, were there. The
Prez and Veep of the Bent Zealots. There were the usual suspects such as the sinister Dr. Thymus Moog, the brothers Taliwood, Twinkletoes, the mineralogist Harte and his assistant Dust Bunny, the roly-poly Hobie Cleminshaw, Haven, Anson, Ormond, and the chef Dipstick. We all met at a café beforehand, and I was sure the restaurant, and the town of Parker, had never hosted such a motley crew. Maybe being aware of their sheer number and the leather image they projected, each man with the exception of that Rover character were on their best behavior, calling waitresses “ma’am” and unfolding paper napkins in their laps.
Rover yelled at the waitstaff, tucked his napkin into his T-shirt collar, and shoveled in food like his mouth was an oven, but that was his normal self. He sat on the other side of me, and asked me, scrambled eggs tumbling from his mouth,
“You work out?”
That was an odd question. “Yeah. I’ve only done it in my trailer since getting here, though, because I never have time to find the gym. Pull-ups on a bar, crunches, a few small weights.”
“I know one,” he snuffled through a mouthful of bacon. He could’ve been a ruggedly handsome guy if he wasn’t such an uncouth slob.
I was confused. “One what?”
“Gym. Right past Buckskin Mountain.”
I had no clue what he was offering, if anything. “Sounds good,” I said, non-committedly.
But Rover was determined. He had to shove a few triangles of potatoes into his mouth before saying, “Let’s go. After the high school thing, obviously.”
I shrugged. “Obviously.” Working out sounded good, and I wanted my autonomy from Noel. To be honest, since the most glorious blowjob of my life in his bathroom, I’d been wondering. Had he only done that to bribe me into helping the Diné? That would be the obvious tactic. He lures me onto his side by seducing me into his secret, forbidden, homo world. Who wouldn’t want to bed down with the alluring, macho priest with the heavy, veined cock? I had yet to savor that cock, and I knew that was what he was all about. Being the Dom, as they said. Yet it was he who had kneeled before me.
That’s what made me wonder. How often did a Dom or sub “switch up” their routine, their traditional positions? Not that often, I didn’t think. He had done it to drive me wild. He had done it to dangle forbidden fruits right in front of my eyes only to whisk them away again. Noel had told me that I was the “framer of my own fortune.” He believed we had been given a set of options by a Creator, not a single and solitary pathway. We had options. Life might be pain, but it is definitely not a punishment. We are born in an age of hope.
In other words, there was no divine retribution for homosexual acts. I created my own reality. Sometimes Noel made it sound more scientific than Biblical, an approach he might know would appeal to me. But I have to tell you. After blowing my load against the back of Father Moloney’s throat, I never wanted anyone else. Period. It was Noel night and day. Riding two up behind him, I even dared press my face against the back of his neck so I could breathe in his essence. Ah. The sweetest and simplest thing in the world filled me with a harmonic joy.
Ogden had the honor of hosting Toby on his bitch pad. Two native men, poisoned and deformed by lóód doo nádziihii, the sore that never heals. Cancer. It was something, twenty Harleys roaring up the crescent driveway of the high school, clogging the loading zone, ostentatiously drawing attention to ourselves. We boxed in a few soccer moms dropping kids off—not many Indian teens could afford their own pickups—and more than one mother went crying inside the building, shuttling her kid before her.
Already students were pointing, hushed or awed. The swirl of activity around us had pretty much ceased when we cut our engines. We looked around imperiously, backs straight, peering through our shades or whipping them off altogether to squint skeptically at the kids.
I’d never been so proud to be part of a group, part of something bigger than myself. Turk had been riding point with Lock, so they were the first to dismount, ambling slowly around, taking off their leather gloves as though about to whip someone with them. The rest followed in order of hierarchy. The Treasurer Dust Bunny, who wasn’t so threatening with his “helium head” of blond curls, but he brandished brass knuckles in an authoritative manner. Hobie Cleminshaw was Secretary, and he waddled menacingly among the astounded teens. Rover was, logically, the Sergeant-at-Arms, so I was left on the sidelines as he swaggered on the sidewalk, parting youths like the Red Sea, slapping the sidearm that was beneath his leather cut, stuck into his jeans.
I was left alone like the nerd I was, an engineer wearing a shabby Meat Puppets T-shirt. I dismounted too but merely folded my arms and leaned against the Fatboy. It had been agreed that Galileo, Twinkletoes and I would remain behind as the other brothers escorted Toby to his first class. There was no law stopping them from opening the glass door and letting Toby go first while kids angled for the best shots with their camera phones. The look of pride glowed on Toby’s somewhat dirty face, and of course no one dared to utter a word of derision at him.
“How’s it goin’,” Lock nodded to some kids as he filed past, as if he escorted kids to school every day.
“‘sup,” was Turk’s contribution.
Not one teen dared to address a biker directly, their eyes big as basketballs. But once the leather-clad men had vanished inside the building, a few kids in black hoodies approached us peons.
“Are those guys friends of Toby?”
“Is Toby going to join their gang?”
“Is there a freaky initiation to get in?”
“First of all,” I said, mustering my own somewhat feeble authority, “it’s not a ‘gang.’ It’s a club.”
Twinkletoes, as the only true member of the Bent Zealots, butted in. “Yeah, they’re Toby’s friends. We all hang out together often on the rez.”
One kid squeaked, “I’ve seen them! My mom goes to their church, and the bikers are all over the place!”
One boy with a rusty lip ring spit on the ground. “Church. Tccch. Is that why that fuckin’ priest was just riding a motorcycle?”
“Don’t knock it, punk,” snarled Twinkletoes. “Looks like you could use a little enlightening yourself.”
The thug giggled. “Who needs enlightenment when we’ve got Garden Deluxe and Montana Gin.” Montana Gin was sky-blue hairspray mixed with water, I had found out the hard way one night. And Garden Deluxe fortified wine couldn’t even qualify as Bum Wine. It was that bad. “Try the new twist on taste,” decrepit billboards announced. No, thanks.
“You’ll learn,” I said confidently. “The only thing standing between you and doing all day and a night in Tucson is learning a trade. Working.”
Twinkletoes looked quizzically at me. “Are you saying, ‘work will set you free’?”
“Yes!” cried Galileo. “These kids have the strength, the vitality, the triumph of the will!”
I frowned. “He’s the happiest person I’ve ever seen quoting Hitler.”
The thuggish boy lip-farted. “Sh’yeah, right” he said, the typical Navajo response of skepticism. “Is it? Where the hell are any jobs around here? And we’re just as likely to have our hands and legs twisted into knots as Toby.”
“Get cancer,” added another kid.
Galileo pointed at me. “Well, this guy’s here to fix that.”
“Don’t,” I said from the side of my mouth.
Galileo didn’t hear me in his enthusiasm. “He’s the Van Gogh of uranium remediation!’
Twinkletoes frowned. “Van Gogh? You didn’t pick a very good reference. Make it some realist painter, like, ah . . . “
I took my chance to jump in and change the subject away from me. “Leonardo daVinci.”
“Sh’yeah, right,” mumbled most of the kids.
“Anyway,” said Galileo, “Fremont here is a mining engineer. He’s here to clean up all the uranium poisoning left over from World War Two.”
I said darkly, “Galileo. Remember you told me as a kid, you’d play a game where you pretended everything wa
s fine?”
He nodded. “Uncle Tony’s game.”
“Well, let’s play that now.”
He seemed to get my meaning. But he still insisted on quoting someone. “When you put on the animal’s skin, the man inside you dies.”
The rusty jewelry kid asked, “Is that some poet?”
Galileo said, “No. One of the boys at my foster home always said that. He died.”
Well, those were just great examples for our juvenile delinquents to follow. Luckily the swinging glass doors of the school opened with a bang, and our “gang” of adult thugs burst forth. Turk and Lock led the charge, soon followed by Noel, all of them grinning ear to ear. In that moment, as the flood of leather-clad, inked and joyful men issued from those doors, I’d never been prouder. Though I was just a fringe person, a hanger-on and wannabe, I felt part of something bigger than myself. The success of the Bent Zealots’ mission imbued the gathering with a happiness I hadn’t felt in a long time.
The scene went dark with a passing cloud, but that didn’t put a damper on my men. They fist-bumped and bro-hugged it out, slapping each other and even a few students on the back as they passed. I wanted to share the moment with Noel, but he was too busy talking to Harte. Rover got to me first, grabbing my bicep and practically dragging me along to his bike.
“Let’s do it,” he growled.
And that was how I hopped on Rover’s p-pad, wrapping my thighs and palms around a different man for the second time that day. I tried to catch Noel’s eye, but it didn’t seem he was looking for me at all. I reminded myself he wasn’t nearly ready to be out about his sexual identity. We were far from being a couple. We were just two horny guys who admired each other’s bodies, pretty much.
It was nice to get off the rez. A light pattering rain drenched us the entire ride, cleansing and invigorating us. Rover and I had a good workout, spotting for each other lifting heavy weights. Rover grunted and gasped like his life depended on it, which, being an outlaw, I guess it did. I took it a bit easier, since it’d been awhile since I’d bench pressed.
