Afterward, we lay in each other’s arms as we had as boys, listening to the rain fall on the tent. As I drifted into sleep with Brian’s head on my chest, I felt as if the years had melted away and I were once again the boy who had found himself at summer camp. Only this time, I knew the summer didn’t have to end.
Dirty Pictures
I actually did find some nude Polaroids on a New York City street once, but they weren’t nearly this interesting. That, combined with the fact that so many garbagemen are incredibly hot, fueled this story.
I work as a garbageman for the city of New York. The paper pushers who write our job descriptions like to call us “sanitary engineers,” like we somehow take people’s discarded newspapers, crusty cat-food tins, and broken television sets and turn them into machines for studying the motion of the stars or something. But what we really do is go around in the dead hours before dawn scavenging scraps of other people’s lives and hauling them away to a big landfill out in Long Island, where they’re buried in mass graves cared for by flocks of screeching gulls. It’s not a real pretty job, especially during the long hot stretch of a steamy New York summer, but it’s a living.
Most people never notice the men who scrape away the city’s daily coat of grime while they sleep. We’re the invisible ones, who come out after midnight and disappear before the noon sun reaches its high point. I’ve been doing this work for almost seven years now—a quarter of my life—without anything special to speak of happening to me. I’ve even gotten used to the daily ritual of getting up at four to make it to the truck yard by four thirty and then going to sleep when most people are coming home from work to begin their real lives.
Then, a couple of months ago, something happened that turned my usually routine workday into something much different. I was at the end of my haul, working down Seventeenth Street toward Eighth Avenue. I only had one final row of buildings to attend to, and I couldn’t wait to be finished. The city was broiling in a midsummer heat wave, and even in the early morning the temperature was already hovering near eighty. I was sweating like crazy, a big stain soaking the front of my blue coverall from throat to crotch. I couldn’t wait to pull my wet, stinking clothes off and stand under a hot shower for a good long time.
I was thinking about how good the water would feel on my aching muscles when I picked up a cardboard box sitting at the curb and got ready to toss it into the back of the truck. I was swinging it into the jaws of the big crusher when something fell out and fluttered to the ground. Catching the motion out of the corner of my eye, I put the box down and bent down to see what I’d dropped. It was a Polaroid picture, and when I saw what it was a picture of, I almost dropped it again.
Framed by the thin white lines of the border was a shot of a naked guy. His head was cut off where the top of the picture severed his neck like the blade of a guillotine, but the rest of him was perfectly clear. He was a big guy, with a thick chest and muscular arms and legs. His body was covered in black hair, and his fist was wrapped around a huge cock. He was squeezing it tightly, and the big head was red and swollen. His other hand was stretching out his hairy ballsac.
I just stood there staring at the picture, unable to take my eyes off the headless man. It wasn’t like I’d never seen a naked guy before. It was just that I never expected to see one fall out of the trash I was hauling. I mean, sure, I come across a lot of discarded porn mags, but this was a real surprise. People are usually pretty careful about throwing out pictures of themselves, like whoever finds them will have control over their souls or something. I rarely find actual snapshots of people, especially ones where they’re playing with their dicks.
I was even more surprised when I realized my cock was starting to get hard from looking at the snapshot. I could feel it stretching inside my overalls, pressing against my stomach. Fumbling nervously with the cardboard flaps, I opened the box and almost shot a load from what I saw. Inside were dozens of Polaroids, all of different nude guys jerking off. Some were standing up and some were lying on beds waving their cocks at the camera. Some were bent over, their fingers shoved up their assholes. There were even a couple with two guys in them, where one would be sucking the other’s cock or sticking his dick up the other guy’s butthole.
None of them had faces. There were just bodies and, in the case of guys sucking, mouths filled with thick pricks or ripe balls. There were armpits being licked by eager tongues, and at least one shot of just an asshole smeared with globs of lube, the hair swirled around the opening in wet strands. The bodies were fat and thin, black and white and brown, hairy and smooth, young and old. And their cocks were all different, too. Some had big fat monsters that swung heavily between their legs; others had small, thin pricks sticking out from their bodies. It was as if someone had crept into bedrooms all over the city and captured what he saw there on these tiny windows of film.
There were also some used rubbers in the box, scattered among the pictures like the discarded skins of strange animals. The thin blue and white sheaths were wrinkled and wet looking, the tips filled with dried cum and the outsides streaked with faded lines of lube. I reached out and touched one, feeling the softness of the rubber under my fingers. When I picked it up, the end swung down heavily, and I realized that the thick liquid that swelled out the tip was a recent load. Whoever the box belonged to must have put it out that morning and had a good time before he did it.
I riffled through the box and pulled out a handful of photos, stuffing them into the pockets of my work pants. I also put the used rubber in there, tying the end off so that none of the cum would leak out. I could feel how hard my cock was when I put my hand in my pocket, and gave it a couple of quick jerks. I tossed the box with the rest of the pictures into the truck and hit the button that brought down the big steel sweeper. I watched it crush the box, spilling out a feast of headless naked men that was quickly swallowed into the belly of the truck. My cock ached as I thought about the pictures in my pockets, and I couldn’t wait to get home and look at them again.
I finished the rest of my route in record time, depositing the truck at the yard and racing home. I didn’t even bother to shower once I got there, pulling off my sweaty clothes and dropping onto the bed as soon as the door was closed. Spreading the pictures out across my chest and stomach, I looked at them while I jerked slowly on my tool, the cool breath of the window fan tickling my overheated skin in thin ribbons. My dick was rock hard from all the anticipation, and it felt like steel beneath my fingers, warm steel pulsing with blood and desire.
As I moved my grimy hand up and down my shaft, I picked up each picture and looked at it, imagining what was going on when it was taken. My favorite was a shot of a man sitting in an old red velvet armchair. His legs were spread, with his knees hooked over the arms of the chair, and in his hand was a long, straight dick. His balls were smooth, and his bush was clipped short. His stomach was wide and flat, the muscles bunched into heavy ropes. His chest and belly were covered in light blond hair, and I could see that he had his head thrown back. His free hand was between his legs, and he had two fingers shoved up his hairy hole, spreading it wide open for the camera.
I tried to picture what the guy who took the photos looked like while I cranked on my meat. I imagined him telling the man in the chair what to do. I could practically hear him saying “Stick your fingers in that hole” while he snapped the shot. Did he jerk off while he watched? Did he fuck the guys when he was done shooting them? Picking up the used rubber and untying the end, I fingered it while I brought the feeling in my balls to a fever pitch with my hand. The weight of the man’s load against my palm was reassuring and arousing, and I thought about him shooting it. I could almost see the photographer stroking himself off while his models posed for him, his hand jerking furiously on his crank.
Tipping the condom upside down, I let the contents splash out onto my chest. The cum was cold and wet against my flushed skin, but it felt so hot to have another man’s load on my body that I didn’t care. I
rubbed the unknown man’s jism into the hair on my chest and belly while I finished myself off. My fingers were sticky with his juice and with my sweat as I massaged him into my balls and slipped into my hairy asshole, and I shot my own load all over my stomach. My balls tensed as volley after volley blew out of my cock and slopped over my hand and the pictures still lying on my stomach.
There was cum everywhere, from my neck to my crotch. Drops of it stuck to my thighs and ran down my sides until I couldn’t tell if it was mine or the man’s whose rubber I’d found. It didn’t matter, it was the hottest jerk-off session I’d ever had. My prick was still throbbing long after I’d finished coming, and the feeling of being covered in spunk was enough to make me want to blow all over again.
Picking the cum-drenched pictures off my body, I wiped them off as much as I could and stuck them in a drawer for later use. Then I showered, lathering up and jerking off again while I thought about the mysterious photographer and what he must be like. I had to see him, and I decided that I’d go back to the building later that night and see if I could find him. I knew it was crazy, but the tugging in my balls every time I thought about him told me I had to do it.
That night, at about eleven o’clock, I found myself standing across the street from the brownstone where I’d found the box that morning. The heat of the afternoon had never died down, and the air was thick and dry as bone in my lungs as I stood looking up at the three floors of windows, trying to figure out which ones belonged to the guy I was looking for. I was glad he didn’t live in a big building, where it would have been impossible to find him. This way, I only had to eliminate two of the floors.
The lights in the second-floor apartment were out, so I concentrated on the other two. The windows on the first floor were covered by blinds, and those on the third were wide open. I stood for about half an hour waiting for some kind of a clue, my dick hard from nervousness and the excitement of doing something totally unexpected. My mind raced with all the reasons why I shouldn’t be there, and I fought them down by waiting for the building to open up and give me some sign that I wasn’t out of my mind. But the brick walls seemed determined to keep their secrets safe within, and nothing happened that would help me make my next move.
I was just about to give up and leave when I saw one of the first-floor shades go up. An elderly woman poked her head out, leaning on the windowsill and looking up and down the street. With her thick glasses and rolls of fat billowing out from her sleeveless housedress, she didn’t look like she was responsible for the box of delights I’d discovered there that morning. Okay, I thought, that means he must be on the top floor. Now how the hell do I get up there?
Moving around to the side of the building, I found the fire escape. By standing on a trash can, and with no small amount of difficulty, I was able to pull myself up to the first level, grunting and straining as I hauled my body over the edge of the platform. This is fucking nuts, I thought as I sat there trying to get my breath. You’re going to get arrested for trying to spy on some guy, and you don’t even know for sure that he lives here.
But the memory of the pictures and what they’d done to my cock kept me going. I crept slowly up the fire escape to the second floor, stopping to peek in the window. The room inside was completely empty, and from the faint patterns remaining in the dust that covered the floor, it looked as though no one had lived there for quite some time. That meant the third-floor apartment was my only chance. I scrambled up the remaining stairs and found myself outside the window. I sat there for a minute, making sure no one in neighboring apartments saw me while I worked up the courage to look in the window.
Like the front windows, the side ones were also curtainless, as well as being pushed open halfway to let in the breeze. All that separated me from the room inside was a thin screen. Peering around the corner, I was able to see directly into what was obviously the bedroom. A light was on, and I could see clearly what was inside. There was a big bed pushed up against one wall, and an armchair opposite it. I recognized the chair as the one from the photos, and my dick jumped sharply in my pants as I realized I’d gotten the right place.
Now that I was actually there, I had no idea what I was doing. I couldn’t just open the window and go into the guy’s bedroom. But I also couldn’t bring myself to leave; I was too curious now to go without seeing what he was like. Before I could decide on my next move, I heard voices from the other room, and someone came into the bedroom so quickly that I barely had time to dip my head below the windowsill before whoever it was saw me. I was scared to look up, in case the occupants were looking out the window, so I just lay there listening to what was going on, feeling my cock through my pants and my heart pounding in my chest.
“Take them off,” I heard an authoritative voice say. “I want to see your dick.”
The command was followed by the muffled sounds of someone removing his clothes. I heard his shoes drop to the floor as he removed them, then the appreciative murmuring of the same masculine voice that had ordered him to strip. “Nice cock,” he said. “Get it hard.” I heard footsteps as he walked across the floor, then the sharp slap of a hand against skin. “Nice ass, too,” he growled. “Can’t wait to see my dick stuffed up it.”
Hearing what was going on was too much. I couldn’t just lie there listening. Lifting my head, I nervously looked over the very bottom of the screen. What I saw almost made me come in my shorts. Standing with his back to me was a tall man with short black hair. He was naked, and through his spread legs I could see the head of his dick hanging over his balls. He was holding a Polaroid camera and barking orders to a man kneeling on the bed. The man, a smooth-skinned Latino guy with a big, uncut prick, was slowly stroking his cock. His foreskin was sliding over his engorged knob while strings of precum flowed out and slid over his shaft.
“Looks fucking hot,” the dark-haired man said, snapping a photo. “Now play with your asshole.”
The Latino guy turned around and pulled his ass cheeks apart, showing the pink center of his pucker. He slid a finger in until it was right up to his knuckle, then began to fuck himself slowly while the other man took pictures. As he snapped one after the other, they fell like leaves from the camera, piling at his feet. From where I knelt on the fire escape I could see that none of them showed the Latino man’s face.
“That’s great,” the black-haired man growled. “You’ve got me so fucking hard I can’t wait.” He put the camera down and moved toward the bed. His cock was stiff, and he pumped the thick shaft quickly as he moved in behind the Latino man. Then, in one quick thrust, he shoved his whole dick into the man’s ass until his balls were banging against his butt.
“Oh, yeah,” he moaned. “You can take the whole fucking thing, can’t you, you little slut.”
The Latino man squirmed against the bed as the big man impaled him on his cock, hammering away at his hole until his dick was sloppy with sweat and juice from the violated ass. The big man put his hands on the other one’s cheeks and pulled them wider, forcing himself inside in long angry thrusts. He was groaning and throwing his head back with each movement.
Watching the two men fuck was getting me really worked up. Pulling my fly open, I pulled out my tool and started manhandling it, jerking off in rhythm with the dark-haired man and pretending it was my ass he was screwing. Within a few minutes I was ready to come, which was a good thing, because the big guy yanked his dick from the Latino man’s asshole and started jacking off. With a few strokes of his hand, he came. Long jets of cum streaked over the prone man’s back, landing in wet stripes on his skin.
Seeing the big stud come made me shoot my load in a blazing rush. I squeezed my cockhead as it spat out a blast that splattered against the bricks of the wall. My balls tensed as jism flowed out of them and dripped onto the slats of the fire escape in heavy drops, emptying onto the street below. A low groan escaped my lips as I gave in to the pleasure wrapping my body in its grip.
It must have been just loud enough for the man in
side to hear, because he jumped off the bed and ran to the window. Before I could even move, he had thrown up the screen and was reaching out for me, his big hand closing around my wrist. “What the hell are you doing out here?” he demanded angrily. I was so scared I couldn’t answer him. I just knelt there on the fire escape, looking up into his beautiful dark brown eyes.
When I didn’t answer, his eyes moved down to my prick, and he smiled slightly as he took in my slimy cock, still held tightly in my hand. All I was conscious of was the way my breathing seemed to have stopped and how his fingers felt closed around my wrist. To my horror, I was still rock hard.
“I think you should get inside,” he said, pulling me toward him. Nervously, I scrambled over the windowsill and into the bedroom. The Latino man was still on the bed, and he stared at me as I stood awkwardly in the center of the room. The dark-haired man pulled the screen closed again, then walked over to stand in front of me. “Do you always spend your nights jerking off on fire escapes?” he asked as he gripped my chin in his hand and forced my eyes up to his.
Again I couldn’t say anything. Everything else melted away as I concentrated on the way his fingers held my face and how his eyes bored into mine. While I tried to get my tongue to work, my skin burned where he touched it, filling me with a sweet pain that gripped my balls and squeezed tightly. I felt as though I’d done something forbidden, seen something that I never should have seen, and gotten caught. It made me feel slightly dirty, like when I was a kid and I’d look at the magazines in my dad’s underwear drawer and jack off, afraid the whole time that he’d walk in and catch me, half hoping that he would.
Only this time he had walked in, and I knew I was going to pay for it. When I didn’t answer fast enough, the man moved his hand down and grabbed my cock by the base, pulling up on it until I cried out. “There,” he said, smiling, “I finally got a noise out of you. And you seem to like it, too.”
Tangled Sheets Page 20
