Midnight Farmhand

by Roland Graeme

  There was a garage, inside which Duane’s car was presumably parked. Jacob pulled his pickup into the driveway in front of it.

  Having heard his guest drive up, Duane emerged from the front door. He was wearing khaki slacks and a plain gray sweatshirt. Shoeless, his big feet were encased in some sort of sheer black socks.

  “You found the place okay, I see,” Duane said.

  “Your directions were pretty good.”

  “Come on inside. Welcome to my very humble abode,” the cop announced, as he ushered his visitor inside the house.

  “Should I lose my shoes, too?” Jacob asked.

  “If you want to. We’re very informal here.”

  The house Duane rented was not new, but in fact it looked as though it was in better repair than some of the other ones Jacob had driven past on the block. The front hallway and the living room were comfortably furnished and very tidy, and Jacob had to admire the way in which Duane had obviously made efficient use of the limited available space.

  “This actually looks quite comfortable,” Jacob remarked, as, in his stocking feet, he followed Duane into the kitchen.

  “It is—for one guy to live in, with the occasional overnight guest. For a whole family, I imagine it could get kind of cramped.” Duane was monitoring the progress of two steaming pots set on top of the stove. “Dinner will be ready soon. Sit down and make yourself at home. What can I get you to drink?”

  “No hard liquor, please. After last weekend, I’m trying to reform.”

  “Not completely, I hope. You’re not giving up all of your vices?”

  “No, just the boozing to excess, for now. But I won’t say no to a harmless little pre-dinner drink.”

  “I was thinking about having a glass of wine, myself. The same wine I’m going to serve with dinner. I’ve got plenty.”

  “I think I can handle that. But promise me you’ll cut me off, if I start to overindulge.”

  “It’s a deal. Wine coming right up. And make yourself comfortable. I’ve changed my clothes and dressed down for the occasion, as you see.”

  “Yes, it’s the first time I’ve seen you out of uniform.”

  “The uniform turns some guys on. But it would’ve seemed weird to open the door wearing it.”

  “And it wouldn’t have been necessary. You turn me on, in or out of uniform,” Jacob said, boldly.

  “Oh, don’t be shy. Don’t hold back. Tell me exactly how hot you think I am,” Duane joked. “I need all the ego reinforcement I can get.”

  “That’s a laugh. I bet you get hit on all the time. Even in this hick town.”

  “Well, let’s just say I’ve had my moments. More than once, I’ve pulled over an outsider, speeding through town, to give him a ticket … and he’s asked me if there’s not something he can do for me, to persuade me to tear up the ticket.”

  “And do you tear it up? If the guy’s attractive enough?”

  “Let’s just say I can neither affirm, nor deny.” Duane had fetched a bottle of wine from one of the kitchen cabinets, along with a pair of large, deep stemmed glasses, and set them down on the kitchen table in front of his guest. Now, he used a corkscrew to open the bottle, and poured out the wine.

  He set an example for his guest by taking a hefty swig from his own glass. “Aw, fuck, there’s nothing like a good snort after a long day at work. Drink up. Hey, Jacob, is booze your only vice?”

  “Well, you’ve already experienced my other major one. Namely, sex.”

  “Yeah. And I plan on experiencing it again, before very long. But in the meantime, to get us into the mood—would you like a before-dinner appetizer? Do you want to smoke some grass?”

  “Sure.”

  Jacob spoke without thinking. But the truth of the matter was that he really didn’t have all that much experience, when it came to recreational drugs. When it was a question of getting them into the mood, as Duane had just put it, Jacob believed that alcohol had the advantages of being legal, less expensive, and every bit as effective. He never purchased drugs or kept them in his possession, himself. But he was no prude: if a guy (it was almost invariably a trick) offered Jacob pot, or even coke, he’d do it with him, willingly enough.

  “Let’s go into the living room,” Duane was saying. Once again, feeling rather passive in the other man’s presence, Jacob followed his host, who carried the wine bottle with him. “Comfortable?” Duane asked, when they were both seated in overstuffed, leather-upholstered armchairs, in the living room.

  “Very.”

  “Good. I’ll get out my stash—”

  Belatedly, a thought occurred to Jacob. “But you’re a cop. You’re not allowed to smoke pot—are you?”

  “I’m not allowed—or encouraged—to do a lot of things. But I do them anyway. We’re not drug tested here. Unless one of us shows up for his shift obviously wasted, which I have no intention of ever doing. Come on, join me,” Duane coaxed. “But only if you want to, of course. Don’t let me talk you into anything you really don’t want to do.”

  “I’ve smoked pot before. I’ll have some, sure.”

  “Good.” Duane got up and went over to one of the bookshelves. He selected a volume bound in handsome, but somewhat worn and faded, brown leather, and brought it over to the coffee table.

  Jacob saw that the book’s spine had the title The Metamorphoses of Ovid stamped on it, in dull gold letters. But then, as Duane turned the book over in his hands, Jacob realized that it wasn’t a book at all. It was a box, one of those small “home safes,” cleverly camouflaged to resemble a book. Duane used a key to open it. Inside were a transparent ziplock plastic bag of marijuana, a package of rolling papers, and a disposable plastic cigarette lighter.

  After taking a sip of his wine, Duane demonstrated his skill at hand-rolling a joint. Jacob found the sight of his tongue licking the paper before he closed it into a cylinder around the neatly packed weed was rather erotic. He lit the cigarette, took a drag, and then handed it to Jacob.

  Perhaps because he still wasn’t all that used to it, the pot seemed unusually potent to Jacob. As they drank and passed the joint back and forth, he quickly felt himself mellowing out.

  “Where do you get this?” he asked.

  “The pot? Right here in town—or not far outside of town, as a matter of fact. One of our more enterprising farmers grows it on his property. In a field cleared for the purpose in the middle of the woods.”

  “Let me guess, Duane. You work out in a gym here in town, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, although I do have a set of free weights here at home.”

  “A gym owned by a guy named Hank Troyer?”

  “That’s right. You’ve met him?”

  “He came to see my boss the other night. On business,” Jacob improvised, as an afterthought.

  “No kidding? Knowing Hank, it was probably some sort of funny business.”

  “You and Hank get your pot from this same farmer, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. It’s not as though the area is crawling with dealers, after all. You want me to introduce you to the guy? He’ll take care of you, as long as you’re discreet.”

  “No, nothing like that. I was just putting two and two together, that’s all.”

  Duane studied him. “Wait a minute. If Hank came to where you work just ‘on business,’ how’d you know he’s a pothead? Let alone where he gets his weed?”

  “Ah—he and Merle had a little pot party afterward, and they invited me to join him. So it just came up in the course of the conversation.”

  Duane grunted. “For a guy who hasn’t lived here all that long, you’re good at doing a little detective work, and ‘putting two and two together,’ as you say. You know, making the connection between me and Hank, and our mutual friend and dealer. I can see I’m going to have to be more careful about hiding my tracks and covering my ass.”

  “I know how to keep my mouth shut about other people’s business,” Jacob assured him. “And I appreciate it when they return the fa
vor.”

  “I understand.” Smoking away, with obvious enthusiasm, Duane looked at Jacob, and smiled. “I don’t mean to pry, to tell me if I’m out of line. But I remember you telling me about this guy you’ve been fooling around with at work. What’s his name, by the way? Come on, you can tell me,” he coaxed. “I won’t blab it around. I’m just curious about what kind of a man turns you on. And I know most of the guys who work on that farm with you, at least by sight. I see them when they come into town.”

  “It’s Camilo.”

  “Oh, Camilo Bautista? Yeah, I’ve met him. He’s a good-looking dude. I can’t say I know him all that well, though. He’s just one of those dudes you make small talk with. What’s he like?”

  “He’s funny. Smart. And very sexy. In those ways, in fact, he reminds me of you. And I’m not just saying that. It’s true.”

  “Why don’t you give him a chance? I mean, to be more than just your fuck buddy.”

  “I don’t know. There’s no good reason why I shouldn’t, I guess. I have a feeling he’d like it.”

  “If it wasn’t for him, I’d want to see you all the time.”

  “Well, it’s not as though Camilo and I have picked out our wedding rings. You can come visit me, any time you want. And spend the night in my room. I’ve told you that. Consider it an open invitation. Or I’ll come here.”

  Duane grimaced. “Oh, I’m sure Camilo would like that. Another dude horning in on his territory.”

  “He might not dislike it, once he had a chance to get to know you.”

  “Maybe—if he’s not the jealous or possessive type—he’d be willing to share you with me,” Duane suggested. “And I’m not talking about just on alternate nights. I’m talking about a threesome.”

  Jacob remembered, only too vividly, the threesome he’s had with Merle and Hank. The thought of finding himself sandwiched between Camilo and Duane was even more arousing.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “The two of you in bed with me, both at once—fuck! It’s getting me hard, just thinking about it.”

  Duane sucked on the joint, held the smoke down in his lungs, and exhaled it slowly before he responded. “Well, hold that thought, buddy. We’ll start taking care of your hard-on in a little while. Let’s eat first. Dinner should be just about ready, by now.”

  Not for the first time, Jacob was impressed by another man’s casual, easygoing attitude toward sex. He was also somewhat envious of it.

  “I guess you’re a lot more experienced that I am,” he said, as he followed Duane back into the kitchen. “Have you had sex with a lot of guys?”

  Duane shrugged those broad shoulders of his, the motion making his gray sweatshirt ripple over his chest. “Enough, I guess. There’s nothing wrong with these occasional hookups, as far as they go. But I’m still looking for a reasonably stable relationship with one guy. And that’s what you should be working on, too.”

  “Should I? Why?”

  “Because you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  “When you fall for a guy, and you’re kind of in love with him—it’s different. It’s like having a really close friend, and also having somebody you have really hot sex with, all at once.”

  They ate dinner at the kitchen table. Duane was an excellent cook. He served a simple tossed salad, but he followed it with stuffed chicken breasts topped by an herb-enhanced cream sauce, with a vegetable casserole as a side dish.

  Dessert was a peach pie, warmed in the oven.

  “It’s store bought,” Duane confessed. “I’m not much of a baker.”

  “Everything’s been delicious. I’m getting full.”

  By now, they were on a refill of the wine, and their second joint. Their conversation flagged, but their erections didn’t. By the time the stub of the second joint ended up in the ashtray, they were both definitely in the mood.

  Duane refused to let Jacob help with the dishes.

  “They can soak in the sink overnight, and then I’ll put everything in the dishwasher,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine. Couldn’t be better.”

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I don’t want to rush you, Jacob. But why don’t we go into my bedroom and get really comfortable?” Duane suggested. “And then I’ll make it my business to make sure you really start enjoying yourself.”

  Jacob grinned at his host. “Rush me? Hell, I thought you’d never ask! Lead the way.”

  He followed Duane upstairs, then down a hallway that led to the back of the house. No doubt in anticipation of entertaining his visitor, in bed and overnight, Duane had obviously prepared his bedroom ahead of time. He struck a match, and lit an old-fashioned oil lamp, which he turned down low and set carefully on a chest of drawers which was against one wall, opposite the foot of the bed.

  “There,” Duane said, with satisfaction. “That’s a little more atmospheric than plain electric light.”

  The bed itself was a broad, king-sized affair, with a classic polished brass headboard and footboard that gleamed in the soft lamplight. The bed was invitingly made up, with crisp white sheets and pillowcases; a blanket and quilt were turned down toward the foot of the mattress.

  There was a mirror on one wall, but Duane had transformed the rest of the wall space into his own private art gallery. He had framed photographs of various sizes, some black and white, the rest in color, hung on all four walls. All of the photos were of naked men. Some were “artistic” male nudes, but the majority were sexually explicit to the point of being pornographic. The models sported erections. Some of them were masturbating for the camera, or exposing their bare buttocks and their assholes to the lens. Other men were depicted in pairs and even in trios, engaged in the standard repertory of sex acts—kissing, mutual masturbation, cocksucking, rimming, fucking. One of the large photos, in full, vivid color, showed a muscular man being double penetrated, taking the cocks of both of his equally well-built playmates up his anus at once. The ecstatic look on his face suggested that the experience was more pleasurable than painful for him.

  “Ah … this is quite some art gallery you’ve got here,” Jacob remarked.

  “I like porn,” Duane admitted. “I like to look at naked men. Hell, what gay guy doesn’t? And I figured I might as well be able to, in my own bedroom. I’ve collected these photos over the past few years. Most of them are by pretty well-known photographers—gay photographers, of course, who like to do this kind of work on the side. And some of the models are porn actors. You probably recognize them.”

  “Well … the truth is, I haven’t seen that much porn.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot. You’re kind of new to this whole scene, aren’t you, Jacob? But don’t you worry about it. We were all new to it, at one time or another. Believe me, I know what you’re going through. I know what it’s like to start trying to accept the fact that you’re gay, along with everything that implies. Especially when, at times, it seems like you’re all on your own, and the whole rest of the world is against you.”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “We can talk about it, you know, any time you want. But tonight—right now—I have to admit I’m feeling kind of selfish,” Duane admitted, with an impish, suggestive grin. “I don’t really feel much like talking. I want to make love to you. Can I?”

  Jacob swallowed, hard, as though to clear some sudden obstruction in his throat which had made it difficult for him to breathe, let alone speak. “Please do,” he whispered.

  “Come here, then,” Duane replied, also whispering.

  They got undressed, each man pulling off not only his own clothes, but any of the other man’s garments he could reach with his hands. It didn’t take long before they were both in the same state as many of the models in the photographs—namely, nude and visibly aroused. The various acts taking place in the images on the walls set an excellent and inspiring example.

  Duane stretched out comfortabl
y on the bed, so that his hard-on rose from his groin and pointed at the ceiling. He beckoned to Jacob.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed. “I’m stoned … but as you can see, every time I get good and stoned, I get really hard, too. Unlike some guys who can’t seem to get an erection, or keep it, when they’re wasted. There must be something abnormal about me. I never seem to have that problem.”

  “Good for you,” Jacob responded. “Well, you’ve seen me perform when I was drunk. I seem to recall I rose to the occasion. I haven’t been stoned often enough to know how that affects me. You’re going to have to take pot luck.” He giggled. “Pot luck—get it?”

  Duane snickered. “Yeah, I get it. And I want it. I want you. Come here!”

  The impatient tone of Duane’s voice and the hungry look in his eyes, combined to drive all other thoughts from Jacob’s mind. Duane was obviously feeling no pain. But Jacob was stoned, too. And he’d forgotten how pleasurable it could be to have sex while stoned. Maybe habitual potheads had a point, after all, he couldn’t help thinking. He was aware of a slight numbness and lightheadedness within him, which to some extent insulated his mind from his body. Instead of experiencing his physical responses directly, there was a certain detachment and objectivity. It was as though he was having one of those “out of the body” near-death experiences some people claimed to have had, in which he seemed to be floating weightlessly and looking down on his body, stretched out on a hospital bed.

  Or, in this case, stretched out on Duane’s bed, beside him. He, at least, was very real, physically present and tangible. Jacob could reach out and touch him. And he did just that.

  Slowly, deliberately, Jacob moved into Duane’s embrace. Jacob was eager for the physical excitement and the ultimate satisfaction he needed, and which he knew the other man could give him. But Jacob didn’t want to rush it. The wine and the pot had slowed him down. He was willing to take his time.