Wild Boys

by Richard Labonté

  Tommy pulled his dick out and drilled Rod’s mouth with his tongue. He looked up at me and said, “You like sliding in on my cum?”

  I smiled. “Makes his ass juicy.”

  “Make you wanna squirt?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Gonna get a double load today, boy,” he said to Rod before he shot his gun-metal stare at me and barked, “Shoot that fuckin’ load! Do it!”

  It was like he pulled the trigger of a shotgun. I thrust into Rod one last time as far as I could and pumped my cum deep inside of him. Our bodies quivered. We groaned and struggled to breathe.

  Tommy and I got up, but he told Rod to bend over the couch with his back arched, his beefy ass high in the air. “Got the best of both worlds today, huh boy?”

  He patted Rod’s ass a few times. Rod smiled wide and jerked his dick.

  “Nice dirty butt.”

  Tommy squatted behind Rod and started licking his glazed ass crack. My dick, which was going soft, began to get hard again as I stood by and watched.

  “Push, baby,” Tommy said before he dug his tongue deep into Rod’s glistening anus. He took it out and said, “Push out all that jizz.”

  He spread Rod’s asscheeks and dug his tongue inside of his anus. I could hear his tongue working inside, the familiar sound of fluid sloshing between warm bodies. It was a sound as pulsating and erotic as the image of the felching itself. Tommy withdrew his face. “Push it out, baby.”

  Rod, still masturbating, closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. His anus, distended about three inches, emitted a big fart and then a large glob of semen, the combined result of Tommy’s and my animal fucking, was expelled from his ass and projected into Tommy’s mouth.

  Tommy roared. “Yeah! Gimme more of that jizz, boy!” He gave Rod a good hard smack on the ass. “Squirt that cum.”

  Rod’s asshole opened wide again and the rest of our cum leaked out of his hole. Tommy buried his face in Rod’s ass again and gobbled it up. Seconds later Rod squirmed, moaned and tugged on his cock faster. Tommy placed his palm beneath Rod’s cock and caught all four shots of cum that blasted from his piss slit. When Rod finished he brought his hand to his face and lapped up his semen, licking his fingertips and smacking his lips.

  “Hot motherfuckers,” Tommy said to himself. Licking his palm, he looked like a bear who had just reached his paw into a pot of honey. “My lucky day.” His eyes shined like Christmas lights.

  Once he was done eating he looked at me wide-eyed, as if it was the first time he had ever seen me. I was still jerking my dick, ready for another round of pig fucking. He sauntered over to me. “I ain’t forgot about you, sexy.” He wrapped his hands around my ass, rubbed my asshole with two fingers and clamped his lips over mine. The room tilted in my eyes and a small salty ball of cum rolled to the back of my mouth.

  Hours later, after Rod and I had settled into our motel room near the university, I phoned my parents and told them I had already begun to get quite an education in the South.

  SNEAK THIEVERY

  R. G. Martin

  Blinker pretended to lounge on the porch where the college boys lounged. He was in fact watching the art store across the street—watching the owner, Lonnahan, move inside. Older guy. Handsome, broad shouldered, eagle eyed. When he disappeared, Blinker peeled himself up, slunk over and went in.

  No, wait. He shucked his shirt and went in.

  The store prole looked up. His face brightened. “Justin!” he exclaimed.

  “Hey!”

  The prole was balding but boyish and extremely, extremely nice. His shirt was filled with gay muscles. “How’s it going?” he asked. “Here for that silk-screen kit?” he asked.

  “Not yet. My friend got an airbrush and I was wondering if you have airbrush paint.”

  “Right over here.”

  Blinker already knew about the airbrush paints, although he hadn’t swiped any yet. “Oh, wow,” he rhapsodized. His jeans were tight and low, and he felt the prole’s gaze deconstruct his waist, such as it was.

  Skinny no-account redhead.

  “Are they all two ounces?” he asked. “What if I needed something bigger?”

  “How big?”

  “Big.”

  The prole went back behind the counter and flipped through catalogues. “About eight,” Blinker called as he stooped to pinch calligraphy nibs.

  “Really?”

  “Or a little bigger.” Blinker joined the prole at the register, watched him try not to leer at his nipples. “Listen,” Blinker said earnestly. “Is it a problem for me to be in here shirtless?”

  Blinker spent a buck-something on a Flair. He left with the nibs and a bottle of India ink warm in his pocket, next to his junk.

  Next time, Blinker kept the shirt. “What’s up, Justin?” the prole asked.

  “Just checking things out.”

  Checking out fresh opportunities—windows, hidey-holes, et cetera. The store was an old two-story house. It had a sales floor where a living room would be, and a hall leading to a door, a driveway and a garage.

  Blinker dropped a blister-carded pen set down his shirt. “Hey,” he called. “You know your back door is open?”

  The prole shot to his side. “We keep it open. Sometimes people park back here.”

  “Nice lawn,” Blinker said. “Listen, I don’t guess you need someone to mow it.”

  “That would be great! But the owner does that.”

  “No way. I thought you were the owner.”

  Vamping the prole gave Blinker a hard-on, or rather the blister-carded pen set did. He left by the front, but doubled around and let himself in the garage. Place was like a damn hoarder’s. Hot, ninety degrees. Boxes and boxes, nothing of value.

  He walked toward an enclosed stairway, sidled up to the window and cranked his eyeballs outward. Oh, fuck. Lonnahan’s hot car. Lonnahan himself, pacing with his phone.

  Lonnahan was younger than Blinker thought, but not that young. He had a linebacker’s build and sharp clothes. Blinker could see the sleeve creases from where he was standing, how the fabric hugged the man’s lats. This was the man Blinker was sticking it to.

  Lonnahan drifted out of sight. After a second, Blinker heard a creak, a rattle and Lonnahan’s voice in the doorway, like God. “No, a dozen.” Apparently dressing someone down. Apparently good at it. Blinker became one with the wall.

  “I received a dozen. I was billed for a gross.”

  The door slammed. Blinker’s sweat shimmied south, along with his adrenaline. He clutched the pen set. He flicked open his shirt and his fly. His erection dropped like a drawbridge. He grabbed it in the middle and pulled the skin back to the bush.

  He knew this was a little gay.

  “Do I have to show you the freight slip?” Lonnahan again, just outside. Blinker froze, with precum rolling through his slit.

  Lonnahan paced before the window, tick-tock, tick-tock. He had a straight nose, a straight philtrum, a straight chin cleft. There was gray at his temples. His cuffs had two buttons, and that was annoying. Blinker began to slide his cock skin, tick-tock, in time with Lonnahan’s pacing.

  “Because I will drive up there.”

  Blinker knew nothing about dozens or grosses, but he could tell that Lonnahan was right, and that was also annoying. The corner of the pen set cut into Blinker’s skin. His balls shot up.

  “I will drive up there and show you the freight slip.”

  Blinker gulped aloud. He bit his wrist and jammed his thumb in his cum tube, which angled his cock down, and the pen set fell with a clatter.

  Lonnahan stopped pacing.

  Blinker’s cock was sausage tight. The veins were blue. The lips were open. The underside pulled on the foreskin. Blinker’s orgasm bit, right up the ass. His cum rained on the floorboards.

  He shivered in the heat. He watched as Lonnahan headed for the store.

  Blinker’s victim. Blinker almost felt possessive.

  Lonnahan ran laps in red split shorts that co
st a lot of money. Blinker took to hanging out at the track, sketching with stolen materials. He enjoyed hiding in plain sight. One day, he nodded and Lonnahan nodded back, but with no juice.

  So Blinker swapped his nine-by-twelve stolen pad for an eighteen-by-twenty-four stolen pad. Still no juice. At least the man made a good subject. Body out of Anatomy for Artists. Lips so handsome, it was like a joke.

  Blinker saw a need to step things up.

  He hit the store on the hottest day of the year, with a thin white T-shirt sticking to his tits. “Ninety-five degrees out there,” he announced.

  “I know.” The store prole’s own shirt was unbuttoned to the breastbone.

  “I heard about block printing. Can you show me?”

  “More than happy to.”

  The prole took Blinker to a nook beside a half-opened door. “Where does that go?” he asked.

  “Upstairs. The frame shop.”

  “Oh.” Blinker dug his toes into the prole’s personal space. “You’re always here alone.”

  “Well, summer is dead.”

  “Where’s your boss?”

  “Out. Here’s the cutter set.”

  “Sweet.” Blinker put his arm up, wafting melted deodorant and a young man’s sweat, and dug in another quarter of an inch. “Listen. Is it hard?”

  “Uh, block printing? I’ve never actually done it.”

  “What do you do?” Blinker dropped the cutter set. He bent to pick it up real slow. After a beat, he felt the prole’s hand on his sweaty waist. “Hey!” Blinker hopped out of the prole’s personal space tout de suite. “What’s that?” Blinker fake demanded. “What, what, what is that?”

  The prole turned melon pink.

  “Do you do that a lot?” Blinker demanded. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “I thought you were interested in my art.”

  “I am. We are…friends. Aren’t we?”

  Blinker shook his head in fake disbelief. He ticked the cutter set between his thumb and index finger.

  “Can I buy you that?” the prole asked. “As a peace offering?”

  “Peace offering.” Blinker let this settle in. “Tell me, how is the light in the frame shop?”

  A minute later, the prole—dazed and terrified and hopeful—was unbuttoning his shirt. His chest was solid from armpit to armpit. His stomach was banded with muscle. All of it was thirtysomething and pale, pale, pale. Pink skin, pink nipples, sparse baby hairs.

  “You work out,” Blinker said, pulling out his cell phone.

  “I try.”

  Blinker waved the phone at the prole’s slacks. The prole said, “But the store…?”

  “Summer is dead.” Blinker loved wielding this power. He didn’t want to overdo it, though. “I hope I look that good when I’m your age,” he schmoozed. “I don’t look that good now.”

  “You do, you do.”

  “Underwear too,” Blinker said.

  “But…”

  “I told you, figure studies!”

  The prole inhaled, dropped his bikini briefs, came up cocked. The shaft was a Lincoln log. Dime-tight, the foreskin encircled the slit. Blinker wasn’t stimulated, but he was…something.

  “Put your hand on it?” he said crisply.

  Blinker got an image—more of a sensation. Him on his knees, smoking that thick, smooth… Just so this extremely nice man would keep thinking that Blinker was extremely nice.

  Never going to happen. Blinker snapped the phone shut. “These are going to be useful.”

  “Useful?”

  Blinker helped himself to the silk-screen set he’d wanted on his way out.

  Blinker was on a roll.

  He spent two days rendering the cumulative amount of his thievery in fourteen-inch numerals on the back of his sketchpad. He approached Lonnahan on the track, with the pad under his arm.

  “Listen. I hope it’s not a problem that I draw you.”

  Lonnahan, stretching, barely looked up. “Tell me why it should be.” Blinker wished that he had sprayed the number on the garage.

  He had planned to blackjack the prole, planned to be nice about it. But the prole was gone. In his place, a low-cut blonde with a blue blouse and blue toenails. Blinker made his eyes wide. “Oh, wow! I’ve never been here before! Can you show me around?”

  She let him cop a feel beside the Conte Crayons. The relationship held promise, but in a week she too was gone. College started and the art store grew packed. Blinker kept tabs from the porch across the street, now full of shirtless college boys—

  “So what’s this about you telling Jillian that I have high armpits?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, you know.”

  —who either failed to notice that Blinker was not one of them, or failed to notice him period.

  And Lonnahan was around all the time, all the time.

  One day Blinker snuck in the back door while Lonnahan waited on people. Wet-palmed with fear, he inched along the wall behind the racks, flipped a window latch and fled.

  He climbed in Friday night. The art supplies were in shadow. The floor caught the streetlamp darkly. The college boys stood on the sidewalk with signs: YOU HONK, WE DRINK. Blinker doffed his shirt. Anyone could peer in. No one would see. Now Blinker really felt like Blinker.

  Cash register first. He was pretty sure he could get in. He patted around, but then the sleigh bell that hung on the door jangled. The lock turned.

  Blinker bolted.

  Lonnahan’s voice: “Aidan, its Dad. This phone is about gone, so call me at the store.”

  Blinker hid behind the door on the stair landing. The register rang. Peering out, he saw red split shorts, naked lats, hot skin. Lonnahan, about to take the goddamned money.

  Drawing back, Blinker brushed something. It skidded. He froze. He scrambled up the stairs and around the corner. He flattened himself against the wall. After a moment, footsteps. One, two, three…twelve in all. The light snapped on.

  The phone rang.

  The footsteps retreated. “Aidan”—Lonnahan’s voice in the distance—“are you with your mom?”

  The light was like needles. Blinker clutched his stomach. He’d have hurled if he wasn’t in so deep. Off to the left was a room—a bathroom—a real one with a bathtub. Blinker crawled into it and cringed. At length, Lonnahan’s shadow appeared on the floor. Then the light went out. Silence.

  Blinker waited and went down to the store. The fun was gone, but it might return. He resumed shopping. He checked the register. Cha-ching. At least fucking Lonnahan had left some fucking coins.

  Blinker heard a switch flip. Suddenly, light, and Lonnahan, with skin aglow and shadows coming off his nipple points. “Oh, you,” he said as he shut the cash drawer. “Big surprise.” He put his hands on his hips and turned into a barricade.

  “You need security cameras,” Blinker managed.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Lonnahan advanced. Or not, Blinker found it hard to think. If he could skate past, or barrel through, perform a crotch twist. They performed those in martial arts, probably. Blinker tried it.

  It did not go well. His thumb closed around something as fibrous as bamboo, and his fingers around spongy bulk like avocado, and it was just terrifying. He found himself in a half crouch, inhaling oxygenized testosterone, with no way to save face.

  “What’s the idea?” Lonnahan clapped a hand on Blinker’s junk. “This?”

  “Yeow!”

  He twisted. “Or this?”

  “Yeow!”

  “Or this?” He dropped to his knees, yanked Blinker’s pants down and swallowed him to the root.

  Stars flew in. Blinker saw them and felt them. The pleasure was a wire in his cock, coals in his balls. Incapacitating, and Lonnahan stayed parked—sucking, breathing through Blinker’s orange pubic hair.

  Blinker’s tits popped, buzzed, pulled. Lonnahan started to move. His mouth became a potato p
eeler. Cars honked outside. Passing lights made Blinker’s shadow spin across the wall. Anyone could look in. Anyone could see. Blinker covered his ass crack, as Lonnahan’s mouth methodically shaved back and forth, back and forth, until—

  “Uh!”

  Lonnahan clamped him off.

  “Urgh!” The blockage was a ball buster.

  Lonnahan picked him up, dumped him on the sales counter. Blinker had to crunch into cashew shape or break his neck. Lonnahan yanked off his shoes, yanked off his jeans, yanked off his blue briefs, which were all waistband. Now Blinker was afraid.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice.

  “Go to hell.”

  Lonnahan hoisted Blinker’s butt and shoved his face up the crack. Blinker giggled. Lonnahan smacked him and set about ripping out crack fuzz with his teeth. I could kick him in the face, Blinker thought stupidly.

  But Lonnahan was a shadow with light on his shoulders. He split Blinker’s asscheeks. His tongue stamped Blinker’s hole.

  Not for real, Blinker thought. Tipped the balance, didn’t it? But by then the tongue was halfway up, injecting saliva.

  Lonnahan stepped back, wiped his mouth and skimmed off the red split shorts. His cock popped up long and floaty, bobbing on its pins. He dropped spit on it. He stood for a moment, shining in his wonderful, terrible muscles.

  He grabbed Blinker by the thigh and pulled his butt over the counter’s edge. Blinker had to press down, push his trunk up, to keep from falling. Lonnahan slathered his thumb. He reached between Blinker’s legs. Blinker felt the thumb tap around his crack and his pucker—

  “Yeow!”

  Lonnahan corkscrewed the thumb and then repeated the process with his cock.

  “Yeow!”

  “It is what it is.”

  Lonnahan pushed upward. Blinker stared down at his lower abs, with their sharp waist wings and the crunch crease that ran across his navel. The abs began to pump. The pain became a menthol throb that filled Blinker’s crotch.

  Lonnahan reached back. He flipped the light off. He picked up the phone. “Aidan, Dad again. Can you stay with your mom tonight? Yeah, I got stuck. Pick you up in the morning. Love you.”