Welcome to the world of mansploitation fiction by M.N. Manmacker! It’s a series of linked stories involving man-on-man action in a world full of homoerotic situations, alpha males and raunchy, filthy rutting!
Welcome to the world of mansploitation fiction by M.N. Manmacker! It’s a series of linked stories involving man-on-man action in a world full of homoerotic situations, alpha males and raunchy, filthy rutting!
Content on this website includes pictures and videos that contain adult content. Written material (excerpts, etc.) may contain adult content, including offensive material, nonconsensual sex and other topics you may find objectionable. You must be at least eighteen years of age to visit this website.
Comments, questions and requests can be sent to MNManmacker@proton.me or sign up for the mailing list to keep abreast of new releases.
What does “mansploitation” mean?
À la 70s femsploitation and blaxsploitation movies, mansploitation stories emphasize masculine gender roles in ways that are sexy beyond belief!
Mansploitation stories use a floating, mobile timeline, like a classic cartoon or sitcom.
1: That means time moves forward but the characters mostly don’t — in other words, a college student character will always be a college student, even as the year changes. References and technologies will advance as well. This is a floating timeline.
2: Stories are set in various locations, characterized principally by the bar Lipsweet. For example, when Lipsweet is in Martinsburg, West Virginia, it is a rough-and-tumble strip club dominated by rednecks and hicks in the modern day. When Lipsweet is in Santa Monica, California, it is a modern-day cholo bar. When it is in Baton Rouge, it is a 1930s speakeasy , and when it is in Los Angeles, it is a beachfront bar in the 1980s. The characters will be translated to each setting but will remain mostly the same. Some storylines will unfold along different times and places. This is a mobile timeline.
3: Don’t worry too much about continuity. Some developments, mainly new characters, continue into future stories. But mostly, characters and situations reset in each new story. I try to keep character details consistent, but I have lots of oopsies (e.g., characters changing surnames, etc.). It’s a multiverse thing, deal with it.
Mansploitation stories have subtitles.
The subtitles are formatted like this: “A Lifelong Bachelors Mansploitation Novel” or “A Forceful Alphas Mansploitation Novella”.
Ultra-Raunchy: real dirty stuff, hobos, piss, rimjobs, etc
Mansploitation stories have pictures!
Most stories feature pictures, which are generated by AI. AI produces far superior images for my purposes compared to stock photo.
While images are intended to bring to mind a specific character, they don’t exactly correspond to descriptions in the book. That’s partially because AI isn’t real precise with things like ages, hairstyles and tattoos, but also it simply provides a little variety, so readers don’t feel locked in to a look that may not be their ideal. In any case, just like with stock photos, think of it as less the “actual look” of a character and more a head shot of an actor who could play that character — i.e., hair and makeup will change, they might be a little off in various ways, but they have the right attitude, atmosphere and ambiance to represent the character.
Koa was big and tough, brimming with machismo and power, all traits that women here liked — but he was too much of all those things. He was so big he’d hurt any woman he was with, and he was too crude to be seductive or charming. But he was exactly the kind of man whom Makana liked.
“I… I had no one here for me when I returned from battle. There was no one to clean me and to apply salve to my wounds. Warriors need a woman to come home to.” His voice rang out as deep as the moon. “A woman to mourn them if they fall in battle.”
Koa was big and tough, brimming with machismo and power, all traits that women here liked — but he was too much of all those things. He was so big he’d hurt any woman he was with, and he was too crude to be seductive or charming. But he was exactly the kind of man whom Makana liked.
Mason is a weak pretty-face white man in prison, his cellmate is the legendary Thumper White, and that means Mason is in for a shock. It turns out Thumper wants something from his prison punk that Mason never expected…
This meek bottom and alpha top are about to switch it up, turning their prison cell upside-down!
Read it now as an ebook or on just scroll down!
Mason Barraughter didn’t feel like a prison punk. He was the same as he always was. But people saw him differently now. Last night, in the dimness of his cell, surrounded by the sheets Thumper had tacked up for privacy, Mason felt like Thumper’s partner, not his victim. Thumper had even given him a reacharound but made him promise not to tell anyone. Now, on his first full day behind bars, Mason found himself sitting at the end of the table with the other Bloods — but he was at the very end, with a few other skinny white boys like himself, all of whom had the hang-dog look of a low man on the prison totem pole. They didn’t talk as they ate, and they all ate as though it was going out of style. Mason could still hold his head high, but he tried to keep it down anyway. He was still new to the prison, so he didn’t want to get himself in trouble with anyone. The number-one piece of advice people had given him was to keep his head down. They meant that figuratively, but he was interpreting it as both figurative and literal. Luckily for him, his prison cellmate (and husband), Thumper, was a high-ranking thug who was widely respected and feared by both the Bloods and the other prison gangs. That meant Mason was safe. “Yo, punk!” Thumper said to Mason from the other end of the table, startling him from his reverie. Thumper was surrouned by thugs with dark faces and grim lips, but Thumper stood up on a jolly stoned-grandpa look. “Gimme yo’ peaches.” At first Mason had no idea what he was saying, his ears struggling to hear over the din and roar of the crowded mess. Then he nodded. Thumper wanted the canned peaches on Mason’s breakfast tray. Mason didn’t even really like peaches, so he wasn’t upset about giving them up. He really didn’t like being seen as Thumper’s punk, but if that (and some canned peaches) was the price of safety, he was willing to pay it. Thumper had promised not to do anything he didn’t want to do inside the cell. Outside the cell was a different story, and Mason handed the canned peaches to the man sitting next to him. Nobody was allowed to get up during meals, so the peaches were passed along until they reached Thumper. He took them and nodded his approval down the table to Mason. Thumper was a middle-aged thug and former boxer, with cornrows and chest hair tinged with gray. He had a big barrel-shaped torso and a scruffy mien to his round face. His nose and ears were swollen and crooked, cauliflowering up like deformed broccoli — signs of his decades ago pro boxing career — and his husky voice sounded like he been breathing stale cigarette-clogged prison air his entire life (which he very nearly had). The other thugs laughed like jagged jackals at Mason’s weakness as the end of breakfast was whistle-blown, and Mason stood up, peachless as a plum tree. Thumper scarfed down the peaches, then put one arm possessively around Mason’s back. He led them both into line, Mason in front of Thumper, whose fingers danced up and down Mason’s spine underneath his prison-issue shirt. “Get in line, maggots!” barked Officer Messypants. Mason didn’t know why the others called him that. It was even written on the nametag pinned to his shirt. “On the double, let’s go!” He chanted his exhortations like a drill sergeant, though nobody hurried and yet Messypants nodded like he was being obeyed. When the line had just started moving, Mason was squashed between the large man in front of him and Thumper behind. Thumper’s hand kept exploring Mason’s back, drifting lower and lower. “Keep it moving, assfucks. Keep it moving,” Messypants said. Mason straightened his back as a sharp pain erupted in his ass — Thumper had put his middle finger in. He just slipped his hand down the back of Mason’s pants and rammed his finger into Mason’s ass. Mason gasped and instinctively clutched the well-muscled torso of the thug in front of him for support as his knees buckled. That finger pushed in to the root, and Mason’s eyes bugged out, as much from surprise as from pain. “Quit it. Don’t attract attention, punk,” Thumper said. He used his other hand to keep Mason upright despite the weak knees. The man whom Mason bumped into scowled in a way that suggested he would have punched Mason if Thumper hadn’t been there. “Yo, Thumper takin’ control of his punk fo’ real.” “That punk look like a female. Why does Thumper get all the girlie-boys?” Mason walked in arduous pain all the way back the cell he shared with Thumper, though his dick got hard too. It was an arousing walk for three reasons: because of the finger in his ass, because that broad-shouldered young thug in front of Mason had a sexy back overstuffed with firm muscles and because they were all crammed in so tight that Mason could taste his back fuzz. It wasn’t until they back to their cells that Thumper let go of his ass and pushed him onto the bottom bunk. “Everybody in. Pod clear!” Messypants shouted. Then came the clank and whir of the automatically closing cell doors. “Gonna plow the shit outta you now,” Thumper said amid the hooting and encouraging catcalls of his niggas. The cell bars provided little privacy, and Mason shrank away from him. “Gonna plow yo’ punk now, Thumper? Make ‘im scream fo’ me, nigga!” “Wreck his ass! Wreck that whitebooy booty!” Thumper closed the sheet he used as a curtain, so once again he and Mason had privacy. The shouting grew dimmer or at least seemed less important when Mason was not visible to them. Thumper smiled at Mason in a way that was either menacing or kind; it was impossible to tell which. Despite that, Mason stayed nervous. He sat like a bunk tumor on his mattress, shrinking into himself or trying to. Was it possible Thumper was going to beat him up? Last night Thumper had given him a reacharound that blew Mason’s mind, but this morning, he had been mean all over again. Mason liked getting “ramrodded”, as they said in here. He didn’t like to admit it because men looked at him weird when he said it, but it was true. He was not upset about taking it up behind. And he didn’t mind losing the peaches. But he didn’t want to get shanked or shivved or whatever, sold to the Mexicans, beaten up by prison guards, extorting into smuggling drugs. A lot of bad things could happen in this place, and Thumper looked at Mason like he was brainstorming ’em. “Hey Thumper’s punk, is he in you yet?! Huh? Tell me when he’s in ya, punk!” “Sorry ‘bout all that,” Thumper said with a seductive growl. His voice was low in tone and volume, and it growled outta him like an underhush. He put his ass-stinked finger in his own mouth and sucked it clean, eyes drilling into Mason’s face. Mason’s dick rocketed to full erection, and he was so shocked by Thumper’s willingness to taste Mason’s assjuice that he didn’t have a response. Thumper smiled. “Outside this sheet, you my punk. Inside it, you my wife.” “I uh… Yeah, I remember you saying that,” Mason said. He had forgotten, and in any case, he didn’t know Thumper meant it so literally — Thumper had said he wouldn’t acknowledge Mason as his wife outside the cell; Mason hadn’t heard anything about being called a punk. But being a slim, young-looking and feminine man in prison, Mason had never expected to have a manly reputation. He never had had a manly reputation in any part of his life. He could handle the teasing if he was sure he’d be safe. And he just wasn’t sure of that. Thumper kissed him on the lips, his tongue shoving in Mason’s mouth, massive arms wrapping around Mason’s body. Mason was so surprised he didn’t kiss back right away, just tightening his body up, and then, entirely out of instinct, he flapped his arms around Thumper’s broad shoulders. “Why ain’t you… y’know, showing me affection? You my wife, Mason,” Thumper said, whispering so close his breath condensed on Mason’s ear. His burly ex-boxer chest seemed impossibly huge next to Mason’s petite torso. Thumper frowned. It was the first time Thumper had said Mason’s name out loud, and it made Mason shudder with desire. The fear he’d felt since coming to prison — since his arrest, really — remained, but now it thrummed under a layer of arousal and want and pulsating passion. He kissed Thumper on the neck. But his kisses stopped because Thumper kissed him too, from Mason’s ear to his lips. His tongue plunged into Mason’s mouth, and they kissed for what felt like an eternity. At last, Thumper pulled away and looked down at his feet like a nervous schoolboy. Last night, Mason’s first night, Thumper had plowed him in the ass and given a reacharound. That had been mind-blowing. Mason would have gladly been called a punk every day if it meant he got that. And he assumed that was what Thumper preferred to do — at the very least, Mason assumed Thumper was a strict top. “Oh, sweetie,” Mason said, turning his feminine instincts up as high as they would go. “I assumed you didn’t want me to be all lovey-dovey. You’re really… into kissing?” Thumper looked down at his feet. “Well… I don’t go kissin’ men, y’know. I’ll let you kiss me, cuz you my wife.” Thumper bit his lip. “I might stop you sometimes. I might get salty wit’ ya ‘bout it, tell you not to kiss me.” He pulled his pants down and flopped his cock out of the fly of his prison boxers. “But don’t stop.” “Okay, sweetie,” Mason said. He again kissed Thumper on the lips, and again Thumper kissed him back, twice as powerfully, wrapping his arms around Mason’s neck and rolling onto his bunk together. Then his lips traveled down Mason’s thin neck. Thumper sucked on it so hard he was sure to leave a hickey, and Mason wondered how he could explain that to the other prisoners. Thumper didn’t stop there. He moved lower, licking Mason’s smooth chest and sucking on each nipple in turn. In the tiny bunkspace between Mason’s and Thumper’s bunks, they were crammed in tight. Thumper took up a lot more space than Mason, so it was like cuddling with a horse. Thumper in fact found it easier to move Mason’s body rather than have Mason move himself, as he kissed his way from Mason’s chest to his bellybutton. “Oh god, Thumper, sweetie, yes…” He moved even further down, and Mason grew increasingly shocked. Where was Thumper going? He moved as though he was going to put Mason’s dick in his mouth, but surely an alpha thug like Thumper would never do that. That was what Mason thought right up until the moment that Thumper lifted Mason’s ass up and rammed Mason’s dick right into his mouth. Thumper suckled on it loudly and Mason yelped in shock. His tight hot mouth encircled Mason’s rock-hard dick. A sensation of warmth and moisture enveloped Mason, who moaned and wriggled beneath Thumper’s touch. It was more intense than Mason thought possible. His whole body pulsated and undulated against the scratchy prison mattress. “Damn, shit, Thumper, you’re… uh…” Mason’s voice trailed off both because the sensations was so intense and because he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t offend Thumper. Precum spurted onto Thumper’s tongue. All this was happening so fast. Mason hadn’t even been erect like two minutes ago, and now he felt his orgasm burgeoning, roiling, deep within him. Mason’s shock made this an especially arousing experience for him, and he moaned out loud until Thumper placed a hand over his mouth. “Don’t make noise,” Thumper said with a low growl, lifting his head off Mason’s cock for a moment. “Or if you gotta make noise, make it sound like you takin’ it in the ass…” “Oh, Thumper, please, go more slowly, your big cock hurts too much…!” Mason said, hoping that sounded believable enough to the whooping masses outside the cell. He didn’t think his acting was very good, but his sexual excitement sounded similar to fear and pain, so no one outside the cell seemed to notice. They laughed and cheered Thumper on. “Shut the fuck up, punk!” Thumper barked. He smacked Mason’s asscheek to make a loud slapping noise. He grinned as he did so, but it actually hurt quite a bit — Thumper wasn’t used to pulling his punches. Thumper sniffed Mason’s ass and winced in disgust or maybe embarrassment. Despite that, he whispered, more softly now, so only Mason could hear, “Gonna eat yo’ pussy, boi. Gonna eat it up…” “Rip that punk apart, Thump!” Without waiting for a response, Thumper plunged his tongue right into Mason’s ass. He was so much bigger than Mason that his face didn’t really fit between Mason’s cheeks, no matter how Mason pulled them apart. Thumper licked as though he was eat out a woman’s pussy, lapping at Mason’s prostate and ramming his tongue as deep as it would go. He licked so expertly and so deeply, and without any hesitation, that Mason could tell he was an experienced rimjobber. “You taste like girl,” Thumper said with a growl, the sound resonating within Mason’s ass. Mason wondered how Thumper remembered that — he had been locked up for something like thirty years. Mason’s back arched as pleasure shot up his spine. As usual, his prostate lit up so much it felt like he was cumming already. The pleasure suffused throughout his body, and he gasped with every thrust of Thumper’s tongue. Mason was entranced by what was happening, so when there was a sudden flurry of movement outside the cell, he didn’t react right away. Thumper did. Thumper dropped Mason’s ass, flipped him over and rammed his dick right in Mason’s hole. His burly hands wrapped around Mason’s neck and squeezed, just enough to make it difficult, though not impossible, to breathe. “Open up, punk!” Thumper barked into Mason’s ear. Well, this certainly did change quickly, Mason thought to himself. His prostate was already alive with desire, so Mason nearly shot his orgasm right then. The only reason he didn’t was that he realized a guard was tearing down the sheet that gave him and Thumper privacy. That was why Thumper switched to plowing Mason — he didn’t want to be seen bottoming. “Inmate White!” the guard yelled, fumbling with his keys to open the cell. “Thumper!” he yelled. “Thumper, get off him!” Thumper pulled his dick out and stopped strangling Mason but left his hand resting around Mason’s neck and his iron-like dick throbbing between Mason’s cheeks. He frowned at the guard. “Get outta here, Messypants!” Thumper said. “We’s makin’ love. Ain’t that right, punk?” “That’s right,” Mason said. He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to sound like he was willing in order to make the guard go away or unwilling to make the other inmates think Thumper was still in charge. He settled on willing, since at least that meant this wouldn’t have to end. Mason certainly didn’t want to stop. Officer Messypants hesitated. “Really? Are you sure-?” “Yes, I’m sure! Go away!” Mason said, breathless. He shrugged. It seemed Messypants was not that worried about it. He was glad to have an excuse to walk away. He snorted in disgust and left, muttering judgemental nothings Mason couldn’t hear. “Least you could put the damn sheet back up!” Thumper yelled. “Keep yo’ ass in position, punk!” He had to get out of the bunk to recreate the curtain by hanging the sheet over the cell bars, amid the hooting and laughter of the other inmates. Mason remained bent over, just as he was when Thumper was inside him. “Ram the shit outta him, Thump!” “Wreck that whiteboy! Wreck that whiteboy, nigga!” Then Thumper pounced, jumping back onto the bunk and onto Mason’s back. He kissed Mason’s neck and licked a trail down his quivering spine back to his ass. He licked it again and stuck his tongue deep inside Mason’s asshole. Once again, Mason moaned and had to cover it up to make it sound like pain rather than arousal. “Ram me now, boi,” Thumper whispered in his ear. “Stick it in me. I wanna feel you inside me.” He bent over the bunk while Mason climbed out to get behind him, so nervous his knees shook. He felt like there was some chance this was a big prank, and when he tried to penetrate Thumper, he was going to get in trouble for it. But that anxiety didn’t slow him down. He kneeled behind Thumper’s broad ass and wedged his dick between his cheeks. He had to stand on his ties. Thumper gasped and bit his tongue. Mason placed one of his delicate hands on Thumper’s broad back and its network of scars and prison tattoos. “You ever done this before?” Mason whispered. Thumper nodded. “Yeah. But be gentle. You got a big dick,” he said. He turned his head to the side so Mason could kiss him on the lips. Mason had to come around to the side to reach Thumper’s lips, and his hands gripped his chest. Thumper’s muscles rippled beneath Mason’s touch. “Hey whiteboy! You forgot to tell me when he was inside you, Thumper’s punk!” “I tol’ him not to say nothin’, nigga,” Thumper called out. “When he takin’ my dick, he shouldn’t be thinking ‘bout nothing else, ‘specially not yo’ sorry ass.” “You tell ‘im, Thump!” “Keep that whiteboy bent ovuh propuh!” Mason returned to standing on his toes behind Thumper, and he pushed the tip of his cock in. Thumper’s strapping ass was tight, and Mason had to wait for him to relax to get more than the knob in. That was fine with Mason, who could already feel an orgasm approach. Thumper’s asshole squeezed his sensitive dicktip. He kissed Thumper again and again on the meat of his back, letting his tongue leave a sloppy film over Thumper’s skin. “Oh, god, Thumper, it hurts so much!” Mason said, just loud enough that the men in the other cells could hear. He smiled and giggled quietly. Tricking the other prisoners into thinking Mason was on the bottom was fun, and Mason hoped this would continue throughout his prison stay. Aside from the cramped quarters and lack of freedom, Mason thought, this prison thing might not be so bad. “Yeah, nigga, that’s what I wanna hear!” Thumper growled. He winced in pain but smiled all the same. “Shut the fuck up, punk! Take it!” His body clenched down on Mason’s cock, which slid in deeper, and once again, Mason could feel Thumper’s words through the vibrations in his body. As Mason began working his dick in and out, a little deeper each time, he reached around Thumper’s body for his cock. He gave it a single stroke and was surprised to find it already hard and leaking precum. Thumper’s muscles flexed and he grunted, near orgasm, his back bucking as pleasure wracked his spine. Thumper punched Mason. From his position on his belly bent over the bunk, it wasn’t much of a punch — he had to twist his body and punch upwards, so it didn’t hurt. But it was apparent that Thumper meant it as an outright attack. “Oh sorry-“ “Don’t stop.” Thumper grunted. He let out a moan that he bit back so nobody could hear. “I just need to feel a little affection, whiteboi. A nigga can’t be in charge all the time.” “Oh, okay, okay,” Mason said. He gulped and bit his lip. Thumper’s dick was obviously enjoying itself, throbbing merrily in Mason’s hand, and his ass had been tight at first, but then loosened as though he had done this before. It massaged Mason’s shaft, sending a wave of sensations to course through his body. “You gonna have to hold me down, whiteboi,” he groaned, “Lemme turn around.” He laid on his back, lifting his great, trunk-like thighs up so his feet were by Mason’s head. He guided Mason’s hands to his neck. Mason wasn’t opposed to topping, but he had never done it in a really aggressive way — he had been plowed in an aggressive way, not the other way around. He had certainly never held down or choked a man, especially not a much larger man than himself. But that was what Thumper wanted, and now that he got started, Mason loved every minute of it. He squeezed Thumper’s neck just lightly enough, like Thumper had done to him, and his other hand massaged and kneaded the muscles of Thumper’s chest as he writhed in pain and pleasure, stroking himself off. “You’re so wonderful to me, sweetie,” Mason whispered as he squeezed harder, ramming his meat in as hard as he could now with each thrust of his hips. Thumper outweighed Mason by more than a hundred pounds, so it was obvious that Mason wasn’t holding him down in any meaningful sense. He slammed his rod in and out, marveling at the slap of Thumper’s asscheeks with every thwack-thwack of Mason’s body. A loud thumping sound emanated from the cell — it was Mason’s lean body slapping against Thumper’s jiggling asscheeks. But to the men outside the cell, it sounded like Thumper plowing Mason and Mason noisily begging for him to slow down. “Keep it goin’, Thump!” “I ain’t hear no tears yet, Thumper, so you can still ram him harder! If there ain’t no blood on yo’ dick, yo’ punk can take more!” “I love you, baby,” Thumper grunted. He grabbed Mason by the hair and pulled his head down so they could kiss. “I love you too, sweetie,” Mason said. He had never in his life said that to a girlfriend, but he felt he needed to keep Thumper happy, and at least in this moment, it was true. His dick throbbed and spasmed so intensely he couldn’t focus on much beyond riding Thumper’s ass and moaning in a pained way so the other inmates would think he was on the bottom. As Thumper got plowed, he stroked himself off and grunted. “Ram it deep, punk…” Thumper voice trailed away as he reached orgasm. Thumper’s whole body tensed and tightened before he shot his load. Thumper grunted. He bit his lip and threw his head back. His hands painfully wrenched Mason’s nipples as though they were a woman’s tits. His dick spasmed and the veins of his shaft throbbed beneath his prison-callused fingers. Hot cum sprayed over Thumper’s chest and belly, as his muscles all flexed at once. He had a huge load, thick and creamy, and it trickled over every corner of Thumper’s powerful body. It stuck to his salt-and-pepper chest cornrows and clung there, pearlescent and white, contrasting with his sweat-dappled brown skin. Thumper snorted as he held back a pained gasp. “I know that sound, that’s Thumper cumming all up in his punk’s gut!” Within a few moments, Mason reached his own orgasm. He thrust his dick as deep as it would go within Thumper, coating his insides with hot cum. Jets of jizz spurted into Thumper’s insides. They both grunted and moaned together. The other inmates clapped and cheered. His spine shivered, and Mason had to bite his lip to avoid crying out in a way that made it clear to those outside the cell that Mason was an entirely willing participant. Instead he forced out a pained grunt, which made the inmates cheer as the last aftershocks of his orgasm roiled Mason’s body. “Make that punk yo’ own, Thumper!” But Thumper just smiled as Mason’s dick grew limp in his ass. Thumper’s big, gnarled hands swept over his own chest and body, wiping up every drop of his own cum. Then he brought his hand up for both Mason and him to lick it clean. They did lick it, like a lollipop. Thumper gagged a few times as though he was disgusted by the taste, but he didn’t stop, and each time he did, his body clenched around Mason’s soft dick, sending a shockwave of pleasure up his spine. At last Mason pulled out. Thumper’s hand was clean, and he breathed a sigh of relief now that his ass was empty. Thumper’s horny face disappeared, replaced yet again by thuggish hostility. He sneered at Mason and slapped him. “Take that sheet down, punk,” Thumper said. He added in a whisper. “Pretend yo’ ass hurts.” Mason winced exaggeratedly as he took the sheet down. He blushed at the catcalls of the other inmates and covered his ass with both hands as though from modesty. He pretended to be in agony when Thumper smacked his buttcheeks. “You wreckt him, Thump!” “Yeah! Whose ass is dat, whiteboy?!” “This ass is mine, punk,” Thumper said, beaming proudly at the other inmates. “Right?” “Yes, sir,” Mason said with a grin so slight only Thumper could see it. “I’ll be your punk forever.”
In pre-contact Hawai’i, Makana is a gentle young man, which means the other islanders assume massive warrior Koa would only come to him for a little oral service… But Koa wants to try something totally different!
This Hawai’ian alpha male is about to go twink on top!
The warriors had come back from Ni’ihau earlier today, victorious, with the blood of their enemies still clotting in their hair, running in rivers down their tattooed chests. That was why the day had been exciting, for everyone, warrior or no. But now the day was done, the feast was had, the ancestors were thanked and Makana was home. Looking out the opening in the sides of his hale noa, Makana’s cock twinged at sight of the warriors laughing on the beach. They were richly brown, backs lined with muscles, tattooed shoulders arching and flexing as they roughhoused and carried on. They were still pumped from the war party, that was why. It would take days for their jubilance to diminish. One of the younger warriors glanced in Makana’s direction, saw his face watching with brilliant, flashing eyes, and then looked away and kicked sand towards the ocean. Makana waved when the warrior glanced this way again. He was cute — he had just faced down death and the island’s enemies, but still, he cast nervous glances in this direction. The sun was going down, so Makana prepared his own evening meal. Dried fish in coconut. A few pieces of fruit. He felt lonely at nights these days, as he felt himself getting old, his joints aching, his sleepiness coming on earlier and earlier. The sun spent such short time in the sky. But tonight that loneliness never came, even though he was alone; the island — Makana’s people — had shared a stressful experience and then a powerful release when the warriors returned with captives and treasure. He felt a kinship with everyone else here that he hadn’t felt recently. He felt united in purpose with his tribe. “Hello, Makana…?” came a deep voice from outside his hale. Makana peered around the edge of his hale and saw that sturdy-muscled young man. He had been bruised and bloodied in battle but was cleaned up now. His eye was blackened, nose flattened, one ear much swollen, the other lightly swollen. His worst injuries were on his right thigh, where the flesh was torn up by an enemy’s leiomano, a shark-toothed club. It was obvious he had been through a great struggle, and that his side may have won, but he barely survived. He limped but stonefaced through the pain. His leg was bandaged and poulticed, beset with herbs that would prevent infection. His name was Koa, that same young man who was embarrassed when he waved at Makana earlier. This must have been his first battle, Makana thought, that was why he had been beat up so bad. And he had no woman, which was why he was playing on the beach even after the island’s other warriors had gone home to bed their wives. “Hello, Koa,” Makana said. He emerged from his hale with a plain skin around his body. “Come in.” The evening was cool for this time of year, and the gentle sea-breeze blowing in borne on the waves felt invigorating on Makana’s skin. Koa trembled as he entered the hale. His big body swayed with every step, muscles heaving up and down as if his heft beleaguered him. Koa was so broadly muscled that he took up most of the space in here and exuded heat that further filled the hale with a cozy air. “What can I do for you, Koa?” Makana said, being pumehana and showing it in his voice. “I, uh… I don’t have a woman,” he said. He was tall enough that his face was still aimed down at Makana, even when he hung his head. “There is no wife waiting for me.” “That’s too bad,” Makana said. He led him to his bed in one corner of the hale. “I… I had no one here for me when I returned from battle. There was no one to clean me and to apply salve to my wounds. Warriors need a woman to come home to.” His voice rang out as deep as the moon. “A woman to mourn them if they fall in battle.” “Of course,” Makana said. “You deserve a wife.” “I… had a woman whom I wanted to bed. But she has chosen someone else,” he said, as though that had been tough to admit. It shouldn’t have been — everyone already knew about that; if he had meant to keep it a secret, he had failed. Koa’s bare chest muscles rippled. “So… I am here.” Makana nodded. He stood behind where Koa sat on the floor of his hale. Koa plopped himself on the cold stone ground, which Makana had swept clean today. Koa was so much taller than Makana that, even with him standing and Koa seated, Koa’s face was only a few inches above Makana’s head — his body from the waist up was nearly as tall as Makana’s entire frame. Koa lifted his head as Makana began rubbing his shoulders. He breathed in a deep sigh and then let it chamber out of him. There was great tension in his shoulders. “The other warriors, they say that you are… that you provide… sometimes… that you are available.” “I am.” “Available for things.” “Indeed.” “That girl, she was very pretty.” His shoulders tensed, then relaxed under Makana’s grasp. His muscles were firm as a polished pohaku and warm as a campfire pohaku. “The battle today… I have never seen a man die, not like that. I have seen the elderly die, and I have seen children die from sick,” he said. “But that is all. I have never seen a man I know well, a man I grew up with, laying dead on the beach. Blood poured from his head.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “And then blood stopped pouring. I do not know if he ran out of blood, or… It just stopped.” Makana kneaded Koa’s flesh, which was tired and tense. Makana did not know what to say and felt awkward at first, but the more he massaged the powerful muscles of Koa’s body, the less the awkwardness bothered him. It soon descended into a comfortable silence, and Makana no longer felt a need to say anything. The silence was sufficient. Koa groaned with an intense sound, like he had never felt anything as potent as Makana’s delicate fingers. “When I returned… I wanted a woman to be there waiting for me. Not my mother. I would have give anything for a woman to be waiting for me, to take care of me,” Koa said. He repeated that again a few more times. “I know, you said that, of course you wanted a woman. You fought bravely for your people. You deserve to have someone waiting for you when you return,” Makana said. He kissed the back of Koa’s neck and let his tongue explore the broad muscles of his shoulder. It was lined with dark blue tattoos — he’d have more tattoos in a day or two, since he had fought and won his first battle, but for now he had only a few lines outlining his shoulders and biceps, enhancing his natural curves. Makana kissed each of those lines, while his hands reached around to his chest. His dick accidentally brushed against Koa’s back. Makana pulled away, hoping that didn’t scare him off — a lot of these big warriors were willing to mess around with Makana but didn’t want to touch his dick at all. Koa seemed like precisely that kind of man. He was big and tough, brimming with machismo and power, all traits that women here liked — but he was too much of all those things. He was so big he’d hurt any woman he was with, and he was too crude to be seductive or charming. But he was exactly the kind of man whom Makana liked. But that brief contact with Makana’s dick didn’t seem to scare Koa at all. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. He continued to groan as Makana’s fingers massaged his broad chest. His skin was smooth in between his wounds and a few remnant scars he must have accumulated in training for battle. Makana clucked his tongue and worked his hands lower on Koa’s body. “I wanted a woman to be there for me,” Koa said again, and he was maybe going to say it one more time when Makana put on finger on his lips to shush him. When Koa sputtered, unable to think of a response, Makana laughed and pushed his finger into Koa’s mouth. After a moment of hesitation, Koa sucked on it. “It’s okay, huapala,” Makana said. “You’re much too big for most women anyway. Too many muscles.” Koa blushed and smiled, his anxiety vanishing, replaced by boastfulness. He flexed his biceps and made his chest muscles ripple, which sent a thrill of desire through Makana. Makana’s heart sped up, and all of a sudden, his hale seemed smaller and more snug. Koa’s expansive frame puckered beneath Makana’s touch, as Makana’s lips caressed the curve of his muscled arms. A few beads of sweat appeared on his shoulders and dripped down his side. Sweat of anticipation, not from warmth. That was how Makana knew that Koa was excited as well. “Now that you have me, what did you wish to do?” Makana said, his voice as soft as his touch. “I don’t know… I don’t know what I want,” Koa said. He looked down. “You must tell me what to do.” Makana stepped in front of Koa, flaunting his bare ass, which gleamed in the dim light outside his hale. His self-consciousness about his lack of breasts didn’t bother him in this moment, as it was increasingly clear it did not bother Koa. Makana was doing his part for his people — the warriors needed someone to offer them succor and compassion in private, and this warrior was one who needed him to offer it. He was all too happy to oblige. The only surprising thing, Makana thought as he lowered his head to kiss Koa’s smooth chest, was that Koa wanted to kiss him — most of these warriors enjoyed feeling his mouth on their bodies and penetrating his rear with their manhoods. They did not want to pleasure him in return. But that was exactly what Koa did. He kissed Makana on the lips, rough hands caressing Makana’s shoulders and roaming down his slim hips. Koa had thick and meaty fingers, like miniature clubs battering Makana’s tender body. Then his hands roamed down to Makana’s ass, which he squeezed hard. That sent a frisson up Makana’s spine, and he squealed as he lost himself in Koa’s arms and his warmth. Koa’s kisses moved lower along with his hands, as Makana moaned in surprise and desire. Koa was so tall that he struggled to lower his head much past Makana’s bellybutton — he towered over Makana, so Makana had to stand on his toes. Koa’s kisses moved like tender butterflies as low as he could go on Makana’s body. But even then, Koa could not take Makana’s cock in his mouth, not without kneeling, which Koa would not do — too proud, as a warrior, to kneel before any man beside the chief. Koa instead sat on his ass with his legs out, so Makana could climb onto his thunderous thighs. That at last placed Makana’s smooth cock and balls (he had shaved off his hair just yesterday) right in front of Koa’s mouth. Koa parted his lips, trembled nervously and let Makana’s manhood enter him. A wave of wet warmth washed over Makana, who gripped Koa’s wild mane as pleasure wracked Makana’s body. His cock fit perfectly in Koa’s mouth, his thick tongue rubbing against the shaft as Makana entered his throat. The warmth and moisture of Koa’s tongue battered Makana’s sensitive manhood. Koa didn’t move at first, like he had no idea what was supposed to happen beyond the fact that a penis was to enter his mouth. But then his instincts took over, aided by Makana flexing his hips, and Koa moved his mouth up and down Makana’s shaft. His dick disappeared down Koa’s throat. Koa gagged when it hit the back of his tongue, but that didn’t slow him down at all. Koa twitched awkwardly at first, then his muscles rippled and flexed with increasing excitement. “Oh, Koa…” Makana’s dick was hard already, spasming and leaking precum into Koa’s mouth. Koa didn’t seem in the least bit put off by it, and he actually guzzled down every drop. Makana had very rarely been in this position and never with a young buck-strong warrior like Koa. He scarcely believed it was happening. Koa pulled off Makana’s penis and looked at it as though he had never seen it before. He stroked it with one hand and pulled the foreskin back. He licked the tip and even flickered his tongue into Makana’s piss-hole. He threw his head back and moaned as passion overwhelmed him, and he let out a spine-tingling moan of desire. Makana’s penis rubbed against Koa’s face. He kissed it and worshipped it breathlessly, and his tongue slathered wetness up and down the sensitive shaft. He suckled on Makana’s balls while Makana’s humped his dick overtop Koa’s mouth and cheeks. He was astonished that he was getting perhaps the biggest and roughest warrior on the island to jerk him off instead of the other way around. That happened so rarely he had always assumed it would never happen to him. Makana looked around to make sure no one was nearby. Most of the warriors were at home, in their own hale, with their wahine. No one was on the beach, and the only voices he heard were distant. “Don’t worry, Koa, no one will see, and no one will tease you for it even if they did see. They know better than to cross me,” Makana said. He was an herbalist for the island, and many a men came to his for healing when they were sick or injured. No one wanted to get on his bad side. Many men also came to him when their wives were angry with them, and Makana would treat them as Koa did now. The powerful warriors who protected this island and its inhabitants deserved the tender, sensitive touch of Makana, he thought, but none of them had reciprocated an experience like Koa was doing now. Koa nodded. He kissed the tip of Makana’s dick, then moved around to Makana’s ass. Koa rotated his body and groaned when he tasted Makana’s light brown asscheek, like he had never seen a rear end before. His lips caressed the curve of Makana’s backside. Makana leaned forward and placed his hands on the ground. Now this, he thought, was proceeding in a little more typical manner — Koa was going to lick Makana’s bottom until it was nice and loose, then stick his manhood in. That was what Makana expected from a big warrior like Koa, one who was strong and enduring. His massive head squeezing between Makana’s cheeks, Koa’s tongue tentatively explored around his ass, as though expecting him to say it was tabu for him to put it inside him. But he didn’t say that because it wasn’t forbidden, merely rare; Makana twinkled his asshole in front of Koa’s face. Then Koa growled hungrily and dove in. Makana gasped as Koa’s thick tongue pushed inside him. His tongue was just as disproportionately big as the rest of his body, so it squeezed into Makana’s behind. It was good to take such a tongue now, Makana thought, because Koa’s dick was much bigger. Makana wanted to be loose enough to could accept every inch of Koa’s manhood inside his ass. He lapped at Makana’s ass, more and more enthusiastically with every lick of his tongue. Koa growled and grunted, snorting like a hog and breathing heavily. Shaking with erotic frenzy, Makana struggled to raise his ass all the way up in the air so Koa could reach it without stooping down. His tongue sent him into spasms of pleasure and desire, and Makana clawed at the ground. His eyes rolled back in his head. Then Koa pulled out. Makana knew what was coming, so he lowered his ass and closed his eyes to prepare for both pleasure and pain. But nothing happened. He turned around and saw that Koa had gotten in the same position Makana was in, his smooth plump asscheeks high in the air, well above Makana’s head. “Lick me, Makana…” he said softly, weakly. He closed his eyes and shook his ass. His cheeks were smooth like Makana’s but not slim, they were rather meaty and plump, luscious, inviting like a banquet and no doubt tasty as one too. Makana giggled and reached up to stroke his heavy ballsack and the hairy spot between his thighs. He ran his finger up to Koa’s ass. “You have to lower yourself, huapala. How tall do you think I am?” Koa lowered his ass until he was on all fours on the ground, just like Makana had been moments ago. He aimed his ass up, placing it at the perfect height for Makana to dive in. Makana loved licking fresh ass like this, so he moaned as he spread Koa’s cheeks. Planting his tongue deep inside Koa, Makana moved his hands to caress his cheeks. Then he slowly worked his way around to grip Koa’s dick with both hands. Again his size made the positioning difficult — he had to really stretch to reach Koa’s crotch from behind him. But he enjoyed working at it, and Koa’s asshole clenched around his tongue as he stroked his already erect manhood. After only a few moments, Koa grunted loudly. It felt like he was near orgasm. His muscles pulsated and rippled above Makana’s face, which worked up a puddle of moisture in the crevice between Koa’s powerful asscheeks. “Makana…” Koa said, keeping his head hung low. “Will you… put it in me?” “You want me to do that?” Makana asked, his eyes opening wide, eyebrows raising. That was one thing he had never done — plenty of warriors wanted to do it the other way around and a handful had wanted to jerk him off. But none ever wished to be penetrated. Koa, Makana thought, was truly special. “Yes, please…” Koa’s voice was plaintive and desperate. He wondered how long Koa had been thinking about this. Koa only eighteen so it couldn’t have been for all that long — Koa had been a late bloomer anyway — but he seemed so desperate, as though he had been longing for it for decades. He was an old soul, Makana thought, that was why. “Of course, sweetheart,” Makana said. “I’ll be as gentle as you need.” He stood behind Koa, on his toes to make his crotch line up with Koa’s ass. “Are you ready?” His cocktip throbbed at Koa’s tight entrance. “Yes, please, do it!” Koa exclaimed. Then he bit his lip as Makana slid into him. Makana’s tongue had opened his ass up enough that he could get the first little bit in without any difficulty or pain. A constellation of sensations erupted deep within Makana, pleasure emanating from his crotch and spreading to every corner of his body, increasing with each thrust of his dick like the tide growing with every wave. After those first couple of inches, Makana felt resistance and slowed down, though Koa showed no sign of pain. Despite his ass fighting and clenching, Koa lifted his bruised head and howled with pleasure. He threw his face back as though trying to kiss Makana, though he was much too tall for his lips to reach Makana’s face. Makana worked his dick in deeper and deeper, surprised with every thrust that Koa didn’t back out or ask him to slow down. He gripped Koa’s tattooed back tightly and held on. His muscle squirmed and coiled beneath Makana’s fingertips. As soon as his fingers reached all the way around his body and touch Koa’s dick, Koa bucked and gasped, bliss rippling through his musculature. His orgasm began then, but Makana knew well how to keep it going. He ground his dick slowly inside Koa’s ass, triggering the point of ultimate sensitivity, and his tiny body made Koa’s massive muscles shake and tremble — he loved the kind of power he had over warriors like Koa. He could never have bested them in battle, but in love and lust, he aroused their passions more than anything else. He sensed Koa’s orgasm through the clenching of his ass and the writhing of his back muscles beneath Makana’s fingers. It was tight and bursting with power, and Koa groaned so loud he was sure everyone nearby must have heard. Nobody spoke of it though, so maybe their passion could yet remain in the shadows. Cum sprayed over the floor as Koa shot his load in Makana’s hand. Makana had never seen so much semen at once, as if Koa had never cum before and was emptying his balls for the first time. It drenched Makana’s hand, wad after creany wad flowing like a river, but he continued stroking, even as Koa’s muscles contorted beneath his touch. His exquisitely sensitive flesh writhed beneath Makana’s grasp. Koa twisted and turned as he plowed him harder and harder. Koa’s dick flopped limply between Makana’s fingers, but he didn’t tell Makana to stop. He gulped and swallowed nervously, accepting every inch of Makana’s dick deep inside him. Makana’s sac slapped on the firmness of Koa’s body too, a thwack-thwack sound resounding in the steamy hale. Finally Makana was done too. He let out an intense grunt when an orgasm washed over him. He stopped moving for a moment, then resumed long, slow strokes of his hips as he spurted out a jet of cum inside Koa. He had a big load too, just as big as Koa’s, and it seeped into Koa’s body. An intense and continuous flow of cream filled up Koa’s, the heat of it suffusing through his flesh. He sighed in sync with the last throbbing pulsations of his dick inside Koa’s behind, his juices spreading within him and dripping down his thighs. It was unlike any orgasm Makana had ever experienced, more intense than he had thought possible. Makana had never penetrated such a man before, so he didn’t know if it was so knee-droppingly potent because that was how it felt to plow a man in the ass, or if Koa was simply that good. It was, Makana decided, a bit of both. “Oh, Koa… you make me feel so good,” Makana said with a cringe and a moan. At last it was done. They were done. The day was done, the battle gone, the pleasure complete and total. Makana pulled his dick out and wiped it off. Koa collapsed into a sweaty heap of tired muscles and bruised, tender flesh on the ground. Makana closed his eyes and sighed. He took a cloth and dipped it in clean water. He slowly wiped off the sweat and other juices until Koa’s brown skin gleamed and shimmered again, and only then did Makana wipe his own manhood clean. He rubbed more of a a poultice into Koa’s wounds, but Koa was already asleep. He had a deeply placid look on his face. In the warmth of Makana’s hale, he lay there next to Koa caring for him and experiencing an wild, thrumming constellation of emotions for what felt like forever. The moon hadn’t yet reached its apex when Makana finally curled up in Koa’s arms to sleep. Makana told himself not to get too excited — many a warrior had sworn to be with him forever only to change their mind when a pretty young girl appeared interested. But for now, this was good enough, and that was all that mattered. He settled into the warmth of Koa’s firm arms and drifted off into a satisfying slumber.
“Hey, Pops… was Mama a…?” Buck’s voice trailed off. “Was she like…?” He gulped. “A… nice lady?” Goose put the truck in park. They done come over to a cathouse outsidea Martinsburg — Lipsweet, it was called. It wasn’t owned by the Gray Snakes, so Goose was gonna hafta pay. He could take Buck to a Gray Snakes bar and get him a free slut, but he admiredta hire Buck someone special. Buck just turned eigheen a couple weeks back, and Goose done come home. After rejoicing in togetherness, Goose took him to Lipsweet as a birthday present. Buck got that raga in him, and Goose could understand for sure. He was young once too. Just once. They was laughing mosta the way from Smashwood. Goose done come home wearing old ratty jeans and a wifebeater, and his gray-spackled beard was raggedy, so Buck came in one of walking right past him at first — Goose looked like one the hobos who moped around the trailer park. But Goose felt less like a hobo than he had in a very long time. “What do you mean?” Goose frowned at Buck. “I heared… Lotta guys say, like…” Buck shrugged and looked down at his feet. He got a big jaw, big nose, big face and a broad pair of shoulders. Damn was Goose proud of him. He done growed into a mountain of man, and he got a hercules mullet. “Some guys got notions ’bout her.” “If’n any fellers say one unkind word ’bout’cha mama, you best smack the stuffing outta ’em, Buck,” Goose said. He done lost the smile he had the whole way here. “Nah, that ain’t ahimsa. Don’t hit ’em. But don’t tol’ate dirty words and unclean claims neither. She was a saint, toting heaps of metta,” Goose said. He paused to attend to his anapanasati, while Buck pondered and plumped and rolled his eyes at Goose’s orientalisms. “There ain’t no such thang as permanence to a soul, Buck, not yor’n and not her’n. She was not her actions, she was her wisdoms, quiet as they was. She wouldn’t nevuh do nuttin’ foul, nothing. She done e’rythang she could fer you. She nevuh had nuttin’ but love fer you. And fer me. And the world really, she was all love, Moses.” Buck nodded. “Good. Thought so. I ain’t believe ’em…” That did sound like a lie, but it was one Goose was glad to hear. If there was anything worth lying about, this was it. “C’mon, son,” Goose said. He done arrange for Buck to come with him of a Wednesday night cuz Helena was working. Goose knewed her well. She was a plus-size lady of indeterminate race, she got ass that don’t quit and she got pussy that takes a big boy dick when the occasion do arise. That was good, cuz Buck’s dick was almost as big as Goose’s. Maybe bigger. Goose don’t wanna measure. Buck was a taller than Goose anyhow — Buck was damn near seven feet tall. Anyway, couple minutes later, Goose was curling his naked body round Helena’s side so he could watch his boy blow up her pussy. She be canoodling, begging for more, Helena know how to play the game. She got more prajna than she seemed. The plan was for Buck to fuck her, then Goose. Then they’d drink, for which Goose’d hafta sneak likker for Buck, cuz the drinking age was twenty-one — that was new, nationwide. Buck was barely eighteen. But in the end, Goose slipped out without even blowing his wad. He handed over the dollars he had to the pinkie-ring whomberry Mr. Gregarian, so’s Buck could spend the whole night with Helena. Buck was young, dumb and fulla cum for sure. He done watch Buck pour gallons of nut up her pussy, and it ain’t even slow him down. Ain’t slow her down neither. He barely lit a cigarette before his dick was hard again, and he splashed his knob into the jizz flooding outta her snatch. She was clawing at his back and begging for more, and not just cuzza the money. Goose could tell when a woman was fooling, and that whore was not fooling. She was needful for Buck’s dick. So Goose let Buck spend the wad for tonight, so Buck could exercise his raga, Goose his dana and the hooker her rigpa. It felt good to restrain, and Goose liked seeing his boy growed up. He don’t need to satisfy his own lusts. He is the master of hisself. Whenever he sees with insight the rise and fall of the aggregates, he is full of joy and happiness. Duck Fat said that, and he was one wise gook. When Goose left, dropping his lobha into the nothingness of the universe, he kept only a couple dollars for a drink. He went outside to get a breath of fresh air and sacca, and he decided to leave without buying a single drink. He went on down by to the police station. Precinct 17 was nigh. Goose done made hisself known there on a couple drunk in public charges, and he was told they gots a bucket trustee a couple weeks back. His name was Hassle, and he was a dowdy chowder-white Nazi, complete with swastikas and German words tattooed on his muscle-bound body. Hassle said he only joined up with the Aryan Way cuz he gotto in the state pen, he don’t got him no dvesha. Goose dunno if that was true. Anyway, Hassle was the bucket trustee at Precinct 17, and Goose had an in there with Officer Jackson. He was a squat sumbitch who knewed some of the same fellers Goose knewed in the Army. Jackson let him know about the bucket trustee. A bucket trustee is a man hired by prison guards or cops to do shit like mop floors, redd toilets, etc. All the shit work they don’t wanna do. Or rather, that’s what a ‘trustee’ does. A ‘bucket trustee’ do all that plus slurp cop dingdong. When a cop wanna get off, the bucket trustee gotsta do it. That’s why no self-respecting man would tale the position. But Gose don’t mind taking advantage. None those hangups matter anyway. Reality is an illusion called maya, and devotion to it is the fundamental ignorance of moha. Hassle got moha in spades. Goose could see it in Hassle’s sunken eyes. “Hey, Hassle, you up?” Goose said when Jackson let him into the jailhouse. Hassle groaned. “Yep.” He stood there in his cell, next to the free weights he was lifting a minute ago. His pale skin gleamed with sweat. “Goose. No ass.” Goose shrugged. “Fine. But you swallow, and you go deep.” Hassle sat on the side of his bunk and motioned for Goose to come into the cell, which he did. “You stop when I tap you on the ass.” Hassle had a six-pack of beer waiting beside his bunk too. Goose eyed that with upadana eyes, but he tamped his thirst down. Sunyata was better than beer, sukha better than preya. “Cops say you gotsta swallow,” Goose said with a grin. That part weren’t true. He heared a rumor the cops made Hassle swallow they cum. Ain’t nobody say nothing about Hassle swallowing nobody else’s. He just get fellers off, reckon. But Hassle seemed to accept that the Goose was transmitting the word of the policemen in the front of the precinct. Pulling down his trouser-pants and drawers, Goose hefted his fat meat in hand. He fed it into Hassle’s mouth, then let his eyes roll back as his dick firmed up. Hassle done get plenty of dicks hard, and he knewed how to do it with a quickness and with upekkha. He slurped up and down Goose’s knob. He don’t shirky-dick it. He was methodical like a fucking pro. In the Army, Goose got a blowjob once from a Turkish whore, and she sucked dick like that, like so good it was too quick and he barely felt it. Took like ninety seconds. Hassle was like her. Goose was older now, and he saw it coming, this weren’t his first time with Hassle. Goose’s first time he cum before he meant to, he was planning on sticking it up Hassle’s behind neverminding Hassle’s protestations. But he got good at delaying it. He don’t wanna premature nut. That experience was burned into his alayavijnana — that’s the deepness of a man’s notions — and like everything that ever done happen, Lucent shooting himself in the face, Masterson and Berringer, Sam’s brains, Ellen, the river, Buck raising up like the everyday sun, all of it was in there. They was meanders and dams and oxbows, but Goose ain’t let none of it interfere. He experienced only the sensation of the moment. When Goose felt an orgasm coming on strong, he pulled outta Hassle’s mouth like he was gonna finish hisself off with his hands. Hassle even got up to wipe his face off. That meant his ass was turned round, so Goose ripped down Hassle’s workpants and drawers. He shoved Hassle off-balance and onto the floor on all fours. “Hey-!” Then, before Hassle could move, Goose mounted him and rammed his dick into his ass. The only lube was Hassle’s spit, but that was enough to get started. Maybe two inches of Goose’s dick slid in. “Get off me!” Hassle roared. He bumped his head into the wall of his cell. Goose had a good grip on his shoulders though, and Hassle couldn’t get enough leverage to stand. “Relax, relax, Jackson said I could,” Goose said. He forced his dick in with all his might. He grinned. Jackson did say Goose could, but ain’t nobody gonna come hold Hassle down. All three them — Goose, Jackson, Hassle — was the culmination of they vasana, which led them like fate to this conflict in this cell. There ain’t no use fighting over it. You gotsta just let it play out. Easy for Goose to say, cuz he was on top. “Owwww shit!” When a burst of pain hit Hassle, he collapsed to the floor. Goose grabbed the bottle of lube Hassle kept beside his bunk, and he went down with Hassle, who screamed in pain. Hassle lay on his belly on the floor, and Goose pressed down atop him. “Ow, fuck, Goose-!” “Sssh, relax, lemme just put the tip in,” Goose said. He already got the tip in and then some, but he done hit resistance. He be plowing against it though, holding onto Hassle by the nape. Goose smeared lube on his dick and stabbed again into the hole. This time it mostly went in, but Hassle yet wriggled and grunted in agony. A wave of pleasure made Goose’s chest ripple. Hassle’s chowder-white face turned red like a Indian, and he buckled and wriggled beneath Goose. “Oww, shit, man, c’mon! Sheriff said I only gotsta take cop dick up behind!” Hassle said. He wrenched his head this way and that. “Ow, shit! C’mon!” “I’ll be done in a sec, just a sec,” Goose said. He laid his face on Hassle’s back and pumped his hips at every angle he could find. It felt good as Goose hoped, Hassle was well-broke-in from all that policeman dingdong and who-knows-who-else. A tight intact booty was nice, but a soft and warm chute was good too. Hassle don’t got a no in his bones, so he could say it over and over like a tractor, but he couldn’t clench. A shot of creamy jizz spurted into Hassle’s guts. A long flow of it went in, and Hassle groaned in disgust and pain. Goose shot a huge load, it just kept on filling up his guts and dripping down his fat buttcrack onto the cell floor. A moan came from both men but with very different cadences. Goose’s hot breath condensed on Hassle’s shoulder muscles. More jizz spurted into Hassle’s tight ass, and Hassle grunted with each wad of cum to coat his guts. Hassle’s whole body shook beneath Goose. Both men was still. Then Goose pistoned his hips, ramming it in deep to drain the last couple drops of nutjuice. Hassle grunted, his muscles and swastikas jostling up and down with Goose’s thrusts. At last, Goose raised his chest off Hassle, and he let his cock slip out. “Sorry, Hassle,” he said. He ain’t sound sorry at all. He had no regrets. No fetters. He got only shrugs, as he calmly wiped his pecker clean, got his garb back on and debouched into one of the unlocked cells. Despite Hassle’s dirty looks, Goose slept there in his own cell, letting the waves of night lull him to slumber, and in the morning, he left and roused his hungover son from his lady’s arms. The sun did shine, like a bowl of merriment, upon Goose’s brow and upon Buck’s dozey dome. With viriya in they step, them two went by shanks’ mare back to they trailer in Smashwood. Goose was from there, so coming home to it was the best thing ever.
Goose learned meditation at a lumber camp near Yakima, where he was the only white feller. The other workers was all Cambodian, fresh off the boat. They taught him to cook on a wok and to experience samatha and sati, two words he was only beginning to acquaint hisself with, though he been searching for ’em since he left America fifteen years ago. Goose taught them too, how to make cornbread, dodge a skunk, play the banjo. The Cambodians worked him hard. His shoulders got to aching, knees creaky as a scary movie, and for the first time in his life, he felt physically old. He’d felt mentally old before, but now, approaching forty, he felt his limbs a-clacking and his joints a-popping. The Cambodians taught him to savor that, to use it to live in the moment, to savor the joy of being the kind of conscious animal that rises above its suffering. Living with males was good, and living with Buddhists was salvatious. Goose meditated like a stone. No mind, no past, no dam. He polished ten perfections, but Goose did got a boy he needta return to. A man do sacrifice everything, even enlightenment, for his kin. Buck was fifteen now. His teacher was a nice old lady with two sigogglin’ heavy-hangers drooping low like a paira sleepy grapefruits. She set up Buck with special lessons after school, and Buck was eager to do ’em too. But his grades stayed basementy. Buck don’t put in the effort, that’s the problem. Smarts is overrated anyway. The most unhappy people Goose ever met was smart as laundry. Dumbdumbism may mean you won’t invent some new kinda computer or something, but it ain’t a barrier to happiness. The Buddhists say that consciousness is the awareness that life is imperfect. Like, take the skunk. It may be dumb, but it accepts that it sees the world as a skunk do, fulla skunky thangs and not-skunky thangs, thangs that could be predators, thangs that could be prey, and e’erythang it sees aligns with its perceptions. It could see a alien spaceship, wouldn’t pluss a skunk, cuz it just put all big loud things in the same category. To a skunk, the world is perfect. E’rythang is in its place, cuz a skunk only knows a couple places. But a human’s conscious soul sees the multitudes and all the thangs that don’t fit into ar’y one of ’em. Like a battle without a war, a fight you both won and lost, a past that circles the present like a vulture and pecks at the future. A skunk don’t ponder. A skunk do swim with the current in the river of it all, while Goose be building a flotsam raft outta hillbilly jetsam to fight through flawed rapids to the wise, wise ocean. Things happen in they own way, as is they wont, and it is our way to never reason why, only to do or do die. A skunk don’t never try to reason why. Idiot blunders is a monster on the left, and overthinking intellects is a monster on the right, while wisdom is a middle route on the righteous and narrow. When Goose was in boot camp, he had his difficulties with the academic side of Army life. Goose’s drill sergeant acted like his donkey-skull was a deliberate decision, not a failure of competence. “You a retard, boy?!” shouted Drill Sergeant Tucker when Goose flunked some dumb-ass test about tactics and equipment and jargon, not the true suchness of the world. “Suh, no, suh!” Goose said. He stood at attention in Tucker’s office. “Why ain’t you got the answers then? I taught you all this shit.” “Suh-!” “Only reason to not know ’em is if you was a retard or you chose to forget ’em, which is it?” “Suh… I was confused ’bout the questions, some of ’em — and the time limit was tough, I ran outta time-“ “All I hear is excuses! You is finally right about one thing, Sampson! You done ran outta time!” Sergeant Tucker said. His face was cranberrying up hard, his wrinkles smudging, jowls jowling. He got asraddhya coming outta his old-man pores. He jabbed a finger at Goose. “Was you tryin’ to fail?” “No suh!” Goose said. “Hopin’ to get outta the Army by bein’ dumb?” “No suh!” “Boy, what?!” “No suh!” “Do I gotsta beat some smarts into ya dumb skull!” Tucker barked, and he was already throwing a punch before he finished his threat. His fist collided with the meaty thickness of Goose’s belly. Goose be oomphing like a tuba, but he stonefaced. This too would pass, as all things demonstrate the impermanence of anicca. Goose was shirtless, so his torso turned red as Sergeant Tucker punched him again and again. Goose thunk he was sposedta not show his pain, but when he couldn’t anymore, he doubled over, gasping for air, his torso turning yellow and purple. Ten fetters anchored him, cuz he thought he shouldn’t be feeling pain. How wrong he was! “Well? Sampson!? Whatchoo got to say for ya candy-ass self?” Drill Sergeant Tucker said when he stopped stopped hitting him. Tucker dunno that there is no self, that atman is an illusion, and so’s candy and asses for that matter. He stood and waited for Goose to catch his breath. Finally, Goose choked out a few words. “Suh… I… suh…” He wanna say he got no pramada, but this was before Goose thunk about enlightenment, he ain’t yet hold no Choo Dye Bee in his grubby mitts. All he could do was bristle and rare, his lungs clawing for wind. “Uh-huh. Sampson, I am gonna drill this shit into you one way or another. I will put the facts into ya brain by hand if I gotto. Nobody gets outta the Army on a brainpower issue, not on my watch.” “Suh, I wasn’t…” Goose took a deep, painful breath. “I wasn’t tryin’ to fail, suh. I reads slow, tha’ss all. Suh, I was a-studyin’-“ “Don’t gimme that, I’m gonna make you hurt til learning seems easier than flunking. You gonna learn every last word, Sampson,” Tucker said. He held up the study guide everybody done get givened. He tossed it at Goose. “Hold it close to ya heart. I’ll drill it in that way.” “Suh, yes, suh,” Goose said. He clutched the study guide to his chest, unaware that this moment, like all moments, was the bija, or seed, of everything that came later. That’s another of time’s blips that can only be reckonized downstream. “I’ll read it again-“ “I know you will.” Sergeant Tucker got behind Goose. “Memorize it, Sampson. No leave, no free time, till you memorize every word.” He reached round Goose and undid the belt holding up Goose’s camo trousers, which toppled to his ankles. “Stay at attention. Hold the study guide.” Then before Goose knewed it, his green drawers was ripped down, and Goose’s foot-long cock dangled. Goose sucked in his breath. Sergeant Tucker remained behind him, so he had to look round Goose to see it. He clucked his tongue like he don’t approve of big dingdongs. He grabbed Goose’s cock from behind and slapped it left and right. It jiggled like gelatin, and his heavy body pressed into Goose’s back. “Thought so. Thick-ass dumb fuck!” Sergeant Tucker said from behind Goose, who could hear the tanha in his voice, but also cetana. Sergeant Tucker got great cetana. That’s how a military officer is, sacrificing his volition for craving. Karma is a curse to war, but soldiers are a society’s upaya. “A smart man’s smarts is in his brain. A dumb motherfucker’s dumbs is in his dick. And ya dick is overflowin’ with dumb, Sampson.” “Yes, suh.” His arms wrapped round Goose’s torso, Tucker rammed his dick into Goose’s ass. It glanced off his intact hole. Tucker rammed again, hard, hard enough to hurt even though it didn’t go in. Goose ain’t show no pain. “You gonna fight me, Sampson? Spread ’em, private. Make a hole and make it wide,” he said. That was what he always said when the squad was jogging and he came up in the middle of ’em. Goose did spread his legs, but he ain’t open his ass. He got his pride. He couldn’t tell a officer no without getting court-martialed, but no rule says he gotsta make it easy for him. He stayed up straight and all, legs spread. That did open his bootyhole up enough for Tucker’s dick tip to tease in, just the tip. That was all. Goose thought maybe he’d be satisfied with that. It was technically penetration. It did go in. He could hold his head high and so could Goose. But then Tucker surprised him by reaching around and grabbing his ballsac. He squeezed it with one hand. A jolt of electric agony shot up Goose’s spine. And when the pain vanished, cuz Tucker leggo, Goose’s ass momentarily unclenched. Sergeant Tucker was waiting for that. His rock-hard cock forced its way into Goose’s butthole, heaps of dickmeat ramming right in. Goose couldn’t help but scream, as pain exploded up his spine. He cut it short when Tucker barked incomprehensibly behind him. “Sssssuh…?!” Goose’s voice trembled. A howl came outta Goose’s mouth, but he choked it back, and he stayed upright. Tucker’s hands gripped Goose’s chest to hold him in place at attention. “Don’chu dare fight me, son!” “Suh, yes, suh!” Goose struggled to speak with the pain exploding in his ass. One of Tucker’s callused hands wrapped round Goose’s cock and squeezed it. “Does ya dick work?” Tucker’s dick ain’t move yet, it just rammed in and stayed still. Goose’s whole body trembled and shook. “Suh, yes, suh!” “Then get hard, Sampson!” Sergeant Tucker said. He was mad stroking Goose’s cock, his own dick planted deep in Goose’s ass like a poplar. It throbbed hotly, and Goose sensed it felt good to Sergeant Tucker, who ain’t show no response to the sensation. He focused on stroking Goose’s dick into firmity. Tucker chuckled. “Is this thang why they call you Goose?” “Suh, yes, suh.” “Best get hard, son, I ain’t gonna finish in ya ass till you blow a nut. Maybe you’ll shoot some of the dumb outta that pecker,” Tucker said. His breathing growed jagged though, and his words was clipped like he was holding back a moan of desire. He be dimpling his hips too, as if he was resisting the instinct to ram back and forth. Somehow Goose did get hard. He was in too much pain to think about it. Maybe it was the tension of the situation, but before he knewed it, his dick was firm and throbbing in Tucker’s hand. It both hurt and felt good, the pain and the pleasure erupting from oppposite ends. He writhed and gasped in Tucker’s strong arms. Precum dribbled out and coated Sergeant Tucker’s hand, then both hands when he started using ’em both on Goose’s shaft. Every couple seconds, he again gave Goose’s balls a light squeeze. “Ow, shit-“ “Hush ya mouth, son,” Sergeant Tucker said. His breath condensed like steam on Goose’s ear. He was daggering slightly now, unable to resist moving his sensitive cock, which only strengthened the agony in Goose’s ass. The pleasure in Goose cock growed stronger though, with every stroke of Sergeant Tucker’s hands. Pain still exploding in his rear, Goose shot a massive load onto the floor. The first arrow was the agony of the moment, but that is fleeting like a leaf in a river. The second arrow was the stress and fear that come with pain, and it was that Goose needed to avoid. Course, that hillbilly ain’t learn that lesson at this time, he was just a dumbass grunt with a big dick, shooting ropes upon ropes of creamy jizz onto the ground. Tucker stroked the entire time, not missing a beat. His painfully callused hand felt much better on Goose’s sensitive shaft after it was coated in sticky jizz. Sergeant Tucker groaned as he teased out Goose’s cum. Only then did Tucker begin moving his dick back and forth, the final few wads of nut was still on the dribble outta Goose’s pecker. The motion reawakened the pain in Goose’s ass. Goose sucked in his breath and clamped his mouth shut, breathing through clenched teeth as little sparks of pleasure kept erupting outta his dick. Behind him, he heared Sergeant Tucker’s broad chest muscles ripple, and he sensed how good Goose’s intact booty felt to him. With a chest-thumping old-man roar, Sergeant Tucker held Goose close and pounded hard at his ass. Goose struggled to stay upright cuzza the pain and the lingering sensitivity in his dickshaft — which Tucker never leggo of, he kept stroking it even limp as twine — as he moaned directly at him, so loud it made Goose’s whole body shake. Or maybe that was the pain from Sergeant Tucker’s cock rocking his innards. Cum sprayed into Goose’s ass. A fat hot burst of it exploded in Goose’s guts, and his knees went weak. “Stay strong, soldier! At attention!” Goose worked out staying upright — both experiencing and wishing for khanti — and he resumed his at-attention stance while Tucker pounded away at his ass. Cum poured down his legs as fast as Tucker could shoot it into his booty. It was hot like lava and goopy like slime, sticking to his innards and to his thighs where it dripped down his legs. “Get this place mopped up, son,” Tucker said, still finishing his nut off in Goose’s muscled ass. He swallowed up a moan by gently biting Goose’s nape. Goose stayed at attention. Tucker’s cock growed soft, but he ain’t take it out. “And I’ll give you one more try at passin’ that test.” “Thank you-” Goose’s voice wavered from the pain. “Suh, thank you, suh.”
Goddamn do kids grow up fast! It felt like just yesterday Buck was a boy scared of his own daddy. When Goose got back to Martinsburg in the winter of 1988, Buck done shot up another full foot in height. He was almost as tall as Goose now. He was strong — skinny, cuz he got so tall so fast, but strong as a ox. He got sweet on this blonde cutie-patootie Lucy. He do swan his love for her oftensome, fooling up his face every time he calls on her, acting like he invented falling moon over mug in love. He got intentions, he do, he do declare ’em on the daily, can’t hardly get him to talk about anything else. She smittened him, that’s what happened, that boy got straight-up smit! Still don’t do school right though. He got a smart mouth with his teachers, and he failing all his classes. The principal Mister Jones admiredta expel him. T’was why Goose swapped noses with Mister Jones one sunny Saturday. Goose sat across from him at his desk, stacks of forms afront his snooty face. The color of Mister Jones’s tie was the same tan-brown color of the Vietcong’s uniforms, and as Mister Jones be a lecturing larry, Goose lost hisself in that color. The Vietcong’s tan-brown uniforms strode along past the cage, whose bamboo bars put blisters upon Goose’s grip. Blood coated his hands — from his back, prolly, where they did whip him this morning — but all Goose saw with his hungry eyes was the cooking fire outside the prisoner of war camp and the plume of smoke rising into the inky blue beyond. One the Vietnameys was doling steam-curling soup into bowls for the other gooks. “Your boy isn’t really academic material,” Mister Jones said, his voice a soundtrack for the soup being ladled out. “Everybody’s mind works differently, and Buck’s does not have the aptitude for education in math and literature-“ “What’s that mean?” Goose snapped more aggressively than he meant to. Mister Jones sniffled like he was snickety about that and put out a calmish murmur. But it was hard to concentrate on Mister Jones cuzza Goose seeing his hillbilly ass dodging the sharpened sticks the gooks poked in between the bars when they walked past. The sticks was cloyed at the tips with clots and scabs, and those who was stabbed usually got infected. “He’d be better off learning a trade, I think. There are programs for…” Mister Jones said, his chair squeaking as he rolled back in it. “Are you… okay, Mister Sampson? I’m coming to you out of a sincere desire to find Buck a way forward.” He paused again. “You seem upset.” Sounded like he wrinkled his nose. The gooks pissed in the cages too, a couple of ’em did, aiming they pinkie-winkies in and letting loose with cloudy streams of piss. Goose don’t feel nothing no more, not the cramped cage around him, not the chair in Mister Jones’s office underneath his ass, not the roiling pit of hunger in his belly or the boiling rage churning everhotly inside him. “He ain’t learnin’ nuttin’!” Goose bellowed, his cheeks burning as tears streamed down. “You shitheads ain’t helpin’! You j’st givin’ up on helpin’ him!” He rattled the chair he could barely contain himself within. He rocked back and forth, so he’d feel the chair moving. His vision rocked too, the bamboo cage shaking around him. Goose grimaced, clenching his teeth till they hurt. He gotsta do his fatherly duty and keep Buck in school, but all he could think about was dodging them poopy sticks. He growled and roared, but it prolly sounded like a choked sob from a failed father to Mister Jones’s ears. Goose gripped the arms of the chair so hard liketa rip ’em off the frame. “Sir, Mister Sampson, please calm down. You’ll have to leave if you can’t behave.” Mister Jones cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Buck doesn’t study or do homework-“ “Ain’t’choo got teachuhs? You’s sposedta be teachin’ him! You and the dumb-fuck parade he’uh is ‘bandonin’ mah boy!” Goose shrieked, spittle flecking his lips. He wagged his finger in the direction Mister Jones was, and since he ain’t see it, only felt it, it wagged with such energy it hurt, like he damn near wagged it outta its joint. Harley was in the cage next to Goose, praying and wasting away to nothing, to skin and bones. Goose avoided looking down less he reckon he was just as skinny. “You can’t speak to me like that, you hillbilly! No wonder Buck struggles in school! How often do you read to him?” Mister Jones’s chair creaked under him, sounded like he was standing up now, leaning over the desk or maybe leaning away from it. “Whatchoo sayin’ about me?! Huh? What’d you bring me here fo’?! You out he’uh accusin’ me-“ “I wanted to explain the scale of the problem, Mister Sampson! Buck won’t sit still. He disrupts class for the other students,” Mister Jones said. “He hit on Missus Gable! Grabbed her breast! The left one!” Goose let out a growl. “Tha’ss natural-“ “You need to teach him to respect women!” Mister Jones. “And Buck picked a fight with another boy this week. Ryan Darling. Because Ryan called him a retard-“ “Then Ryan picked the fight!” Goose said. Mister Jones cleared his throat. “Buck has had his chance, he… Mister Sampson? You seem upset.” “Damn right I’s upset! You — You! I don’t gotta listen to this! You is runnin’ down mah boy, I ain’t a no-good deadbeat, don’chu think that-“ “Maybe we should do this when you’ve calmed down. I don’t think you’re a deadbeat, Mister Sampson, I’m sure… I didn’t set up this meeting to insult-“ “You can’t tell me nuttin’! You dunno, you dunno!” Goose roared, simmering yet as he stood and felt his way outta the office, just enough sense in his mind to stumble his way for the door. He admiredta punch Mister Jones out. When he got outta the principal’s office, he was — blessedly — in the school lobby. He was in West Virginia, not ‘Nam. But he maybe knocked over some chair or something, it mighta looked deliberate. He hurried away before he threw a punch and before he saw Mister Jones’s tie again. Mister Jones followed him. First, he loosened, then took off the tie in his office — he thinked Goose was raising a ruckus on his way out the building — which Goose did do, he was right — Mister Jones removed the tie in anticipation of a donnybrook. But no donny was brooked. When they got outside into the brilliant West Virginia sunshine, Goose reckoned that Mister Jones was tieless, and the fight mercifully drained outta him. He stopped beside the bike he rode over here. “Nice motorcycle,” Mister Jones said. His voice wavered, ready for a fist and skull he don’t want. He let out a whistle that was no doubt meant to be appreciative but came across as plaintive. Goose grunted. The whole world was rushing by, like time was catching up. He grimaced and let the wind run through his hair. That ain’t happen in Vietnam cuz his hair was short. Malnourishment meant it was dry and frizzled when he got outta there. Took months to come in normal. After a minute or two of recompositioning hisself, Goose reckoned Mister Jones was serious about liking the motorcycle. He was looking at it like he always wanted one. Prolly got a wife who don’t like motorcycles. Women mostly don’t, in Goose’s experience. “You want a ride?” Goose asked. He figgered Mister Jones wouldn’t want to ride in the bitch seat — behind Goose — but his eyes lit up. “Hell yeah! Really?…” Mister Jones hesitated. “Are you okay, Mister Sampson? You seemed… upset in there-“ “I’m fine. Get on the bike. I need a ride, and maybe you do too,” Goose said. With a shrug, Mister Jones got on the bike behind Goose, and they drove off. That was good. Goose was ornery yet, but on the motorcycle, he wouldn’t hafta hear Mister Jones’s galding voice talk shit about Buck. By the time he stopped at the Gray Snakes bar, a lotta his anger done drain outta him. “What is this place?” Mister Jones asked when Goose flipped the engine off. They both dismounted the motorcycle. “Just a bar. Want a drink? I’ll buy,” Goose said with a shrug. He went in without waiting for a response. Mister Jones followed him. Goose ain’t explain this was a Gray Snakes bar. He did a gig for ’em hauling untaxed liquor around. The nice thing about the Gray Snakes was that they provided females for they bikers in good standing. Not trashy whores too smacked out to complain neither, they had nice girls, who loved getting fucked by biker dick. Brotherhood is unity of purpose, and Goose felt the Gray Snakes was a purpose, him and Buck as a family were a purpose. A man needs a purpose. That was Buck’s problem at school, Goose was now sure. Too many women, not enough purpose. Buck has gotta earn his manhood, and that’s not a schoolmarm’s domain. Before the night was through, Goose got Mister Jones laid. She was the prettymost lady in the club tonight, blonde and buxom and big in the ass. She took Mister Jones’s dick all night long. Goose had his own lady in the same bed, but he ain’t let it turn into an orgy — Mister Jones would feel inadequate if he saw Goose’s cock, and he want him feeling good. Anyway, it worked, and Buck got a second chance to stick around in school. Maybe Mister Jones was thankful for the beer and the poontang or maybe he was scared Goose would blow his head off. Results is results. That felt good, and it reminded Goose he did get outta that bamboo cage alive. He barely remembered that whole parta it. The Army doc said he might never remember cuzza malnourishment — he was so hungry his brain ain’t form memories right. It ain’t feel proper when he was rescued, like he weren’t really outta there, not until he found hisself in Cuba. Him and Harley done hitch a ride on a series of Navy ships heading home. Maybe t’was a good thing it took awhile. It gave ’em time to gain weight again and to realize they wasn’t captives no more. For a whole week, they was stuck in Guantanamo Bay, an island off the coast of Cuba. They was so close to home, yet they still hadta wait a week to get a ship. Clarkson met them there. He was another Army soldier waiting for a ride home. He been in Guantanamo for a couple months, cuz he was recovering from a injury. “You guys wanna see somethin’ great?” he axed of one night. Goose and Harley was sitting around smoking cigarettes in the moonlight and listening mournful-like to joyous calypsos when Clarkson approached ’em. T’was past lights-out, but that kinda thang weren’t enforced on Guantanamo. The only thang to talk about was boredom, aside from all the bloodshed and horror and corpses and getting thrown in a tiger cage and poked with a shit-covered stick — aside from all that, the only thing Goose and Harley been talking about was being bored. Goddamn was it nice to be bored! Goose and Harley and Clarkson all walked different paths to get here, but they surpassed the same barriers, and that felt right. Goose dunno at the time what civilian life was gonna be like. He ain’t barely recollect what life was like before the Army, before Vietnam, before Masterson and Berringer and the rest got killed. Sam. Ain’t none of Goose’s problems done start yet. Life was calm in the after war. If only it could last forever and then real life could start. Goose saw dams arising ahead, blocking the river, but for now he was content to float upon the lazy lake of brotherhood. When Clarkson offered to show Goose and Harley something interesting, they immediately snubbed out they cigarettes and agreed. Clarkson led ’em to the other side of the base, the side of Guatanamo Bay that was closest to the Cuban mainland, which Goose could see across the water. There was a tiny pier there, just big enough for rowboats. That was how that the Cuban workers came across to clean and serve food and that kinda thing. There was a derelict building here too. Maybe a disused office. Maybe this pier usedta be bigger. Coulda been a proper fishing village on the island a long time ago. Clarkson led Goose and Harley to that building, from which emerged a pair of guilty-smile soldiers. They stopped short as they left cuz they saw Clarkson, Goose and Harley. Them’all gave awkward little nods and went on they way. Goose went into the building. There stood a burly Cuban man in a linen shirt, who looked disinterested as he took twelve dollars from Clarkson. Behind him was a long curtain that stretched from one side of the building to the other. The curtain got five holes in it at varying heights. Clarkson walked right up to one them holes, a big shit-eating grin on his face, and he unzipped his camos. He flopped his pecker into the hole, then he turned to look at Goose and Harley. “Go on, I paid for you two, only cost four bucks each. You can pay extra if you wanna piss in the hole.” “Who…-“ “Aaah, shit, hell yeah!” Harley stepped right up and put his dick in one of the holes. Feeling more cautious though, Goose ain’t do the same — he weren’t the ram-his-pecker-into-a-hole-in-order-to-find-out-what-was-on-the-other-side kinda guy. That was a very distinct breed of man, and Goose weren’t one of ’em! Instead, Goose bent over and peered through one of the holes. It was too dark to see anything on the other side, but he sensed movement over there. “It’s… a machine? What’s on the other side?” Goose asked. “It’s not a woman, right?” As though the answer had oughta been obvious, Clarkson scoffed, while Harley whooped like a crane and plowed at his hole with enthusiasm. His balls thwapped against the curtain — he got massive balls considering his dingus was dinky. Harley said, “It’s a man, retard. I’ve heard of these, it’s a gloryhole. It’s probably like a rapist from the prison on the mainland.” He gripped the flat curtain the best he could, so he could pound his pecker in there.. Clarkson said something in Spanish to the linen-clad bouncer behind him, who responded likewise. Then Clarkson said in English, “Yeah, he said the guy raped like thirty women.” “Which guy? There’s five holes,” Goose asked. Looking at Goose like he was an idiot, Clarkson said, “I guess there’s five rapists, I dunno.” Harley was already blowing his wad, cuz he was like that. He ain’t hide it neither. He was throwing his head back and moaning like a cowboy. Clarkson rammed at the mouth on the other side of his hole pretty dang hard too, his face tensing up as he neared his orgasm. Though Goose weren’t horny, he was bored, and he don’t wanna look like wussy willie. He’d rather come back and do this in the middle of the night alone. That’d be better. But they prolly go back to the mainland eventually. In any case, Goose stuck his dick through the hole. A very awkward warmth overwhelmed him. The man on the other side musta gagged or something, cuz a lotta moisture came running down Goose’s shaft, soaking his pubes. Or maybe he just used alotta spit. That was nice, it felt good, so long as Goose ain’t think too much about what he was doing. He closed his eyes and pictured women — not Vietnameys, he pictured white women or black women or Indian women, he don’t care, just nothing Vietnamey, not ever. A potent orgasm wracked his body — he dunno how long it took, Goose was so focused on not picturing no Vietnamey female that he barely noticed hisself getting close. Cum exploded through the gloryhole and soaked the curtain. Goose’s knees buckled, it felt so good yet almost painful. Harley and Clarkson stood behind him and laughed. “Shit, can’t believe that only cost four bucks,” Goose said, shivers of pleasure still rocking him. His cock slid out the gloryhole. The man on the other side musta stopped slurping the moment he tasted cum, which was kinda disappointing. Mosta Goose’s jizz spurted off into the air. Yet, for four bucks, Goose couldn’t complain too much. By the time he done tuck his dick away, Harley was paying the Cuban in the linen shirt to piss in the hole. It was kinda funny, Goose hadta admit that. But they ain’t get to see the man getting pissed on, and there weren’t even no guarantee he was getting pissed on — he coulda moved away. Harley said he could tell he was pissing into a open mouth, but his dick weren’t in that mouth at the time. They debated all the particulars of that the whole way back. Harley was insistent he pissed on a Cuban rapist, Goose was less sure. Clarkson sided with Harley. By the time they got back to they bunks, the conversation done drift to the relative merits of blowjobs from different kinds of whores. They all done make acquaintanceships with some in the before-time, before the war. They compared notes on pre-war prostitutes. They all most likely fucked Vietnamey prostitutes too. But nobody talked about that. The word ‘Vietnam’ wasn’t said one time, and that felt right as rum to Goose.
By the end of 1987, Goose found his hillbilly ass on a oil rig in the North Atlantic, nigh to a place called the Pharaoh Islands. Goose never heared of ’em. It wasn’t Egyptian, though it sounded like it, it was much farther north than that. It was cold as frozen turds up there! The oil rig itself was toasty warm though. Got plentya heat throughout, and the pay was good, so they could live it up when back on land on leave. Till then, there weren’t much to do besides work. Goose was tuckered as a tire for sure. He did get mail from Buck and Missus Bridge though. She kept Goose in the loop on Buck’s school troubles. He was getting remedials, which she thinked was gonna help. He be wilding, got hisself suspended. That schoolteacher said he gotsta “decorate his binder how he likes it”, but he don’t like it decorated, so he up and ran around, raising hell, you know how a hillbilly do! He ain’t yet understand that when a woman says to do something as you like it, what she means is to do it as she likes it. Buck took it on the chin. He was like that, he take it all in stride. All he gots is women in his life though. He lives with Missus Bridge, he got a lady schoolteacher, his daddy be gone all the time. Maybe that was why he was struggling in school, Goose thought. He sees it as a womanly thing. Even Buck’s gym teacher was a woman! A sturdy lass for sure, but she don’t let ‘em do no wrestling or tackle football or nothing. Buck do get in trouble when he’s bored. Buck sent him drawings of school and the tree fort he built with his buddy Cody, and Goose be sending him back drawings of the oil rig’s drilling room. Buck love that shit. Goose even got this feller with a camera to take some pictures of the machinery, and Goose sent ‘em on to Buck. “Shit, man, aftuh I drop off them pitchers in the mail, I’mma kick off in town tomorruh,” Goose said when him and the other Americans all got back on down to they barrack after suppuh one night. They all lived together by nationality. It helped avoid conflicts, or so the old-timers said. “Shit yeah, booooy!” said Jamal. He was the black feller — the black American feller, as there was other black fellers from like Africa and such. Jamal ain’t get along with them one bit though. He wanted nothing to do with the Africans or the Dominicans. Neither did Goose. Leave he to his own, that’s in the Bible. He do make a exception for the wisdom of the Orient that Sam introduced him to, prior to Goose eating his brains that one time. Goose wondered if Sam’s teachings on rivers and meditation done stuck to Goose’s mind cuz Sam’s brain got in Goose’s mouth. Prolly not. Prolly no science in behind that. But he do dwell on it. “I’mma get that lamb, with the sauce! Heckfire!” said Jenderson, a tall reedy motherfucker from Minnesota. They all agreed on that one. The restaurant on the Pharoah Islands where they got dinner on leave had a rack of lamb that was pricey as fuck but tasted so good it made Goose drool just thinking about it. “The beer with the bear on the label too-“ “Oooh yeah!” “Remembuh that blonde waitress?” “My god, she was hot as hell!” “Hmmphh!” said this youngish feller Jethro Wilde with a mustache and a scruffy beard beneath it. He grabbed his crotch through his workjeans. He pumped his hips like he was fucking a invisible woman. Then he loosened his belt and dropped his jeans. They all stripped to drawers after work. The living quarters was warm, often uncomfortably hot, so they gots to get as undressed as possible. With them all grabbing they peckers and miming what they wanna do to the blonde waitress, stiffies was popping up. And the black feller Jamal was the one with the most obvious stiffy. “Hey, I’mma see if anyone put on that miniskirt,” Jamal said with a guilty laugh. He been dancing along with rap music, which was new then, Goose ain’t never heared it — t’was like calypso but worse, he found. He played calypso instead, but Jamal be plussing. Goose settled. Jamal got a ear for that rap. He grappled with his crotch as the others all laughed alongside him. “Needta find a lady, don’t care how ugly!” Them’all guffawed and slapped they knees. Jamal was short as a petunia, but he steady popped stiffies. He was little enough that his medium-sized pecker looked big as hell on him. He weared only tight-white drawers, as he went off into the corridors of the oil rig in search of the “barrel room”. That was a small bedroom with a box in it. Inside the box was a miniskirt. The old-timers did say over and over that anybody who want to can put on the miniskirt. Then the other fellers was “allowed” to ram him up the booty — course ain’t nobody gonna scotch ya even without the miniskirt. On rig, a feller can either hold his own or he can’t. Don’t need a miniskirt to let a man in ya backdoor. But anyway, if he put on a miniskirt, another man is allowed to put it up behind, gotsta pay out in likker, that was all. The old-timers would enforce that one, if a feller refused to pay up. Or supposably they would. Ain’t not a soul do it yet, and Goose and them all done spread the notion that nobody ever did. T’was just a prank, a way to scare newbies by pretending you was gonna put the miniskirt on ’em. But Jamal been checking every night, it seemed. You know how black boys is, they love ass. If Jamal was a foot taller, he’d prolly try and put the miniskirt on a small feller. Black boys is like that. Most likeishly, the Africans on rig would do the same, and maybe they did among they own. Nobody talked about that though. Jamal returned to the barrack every night with a stiffy, which he jacked off right there in front of everybody. That ain’t a fun parta brotherhood, seeing a black boy shooting nut on his belly. Still felt good to Goose though. Lotta the Americans on rig was veterans, not all of ’em went to ‘Nam though. It hurt to hear it the first time, when some feller said he was in the Army in peace. It made Goose feel old, used-up, abandoned like a waste house, irrelevant, forgotted, like everything that happened was never gonna matter. The Army done move on. Vietnam done move on. But that feller got his own troubles, his own dams blocking up his self-same river. It’s good for a man to get away. Among women and children, a man had gotta keep his head up, keep his shoulders straight. A man falls apart like a jigsaw puzzle; a woman falls apart like shattered glass. Without women, men holds each other together like log cabins. Without men, women holds each other down like a bucket of frogs. Since leave was upcoming soon, Goose held off on his own wingwang. He was gonna get to that brothel, and he was gonna fuck like a stallion. There was beautiful Nordic ladies — blonde-haired beauties like Viking princesses waited for ’em in the Pharaoh Islands. Thinking about them Viking ladies got Goose an inconvenient hardon the night before leave. It was too early for lights out, and Goose don’t like to jack hisself off in the lightness, with a dozen fellers watching or worse, whacking it alongside him. That’s nasty, and that’s what Jamal do. If Goose ain’t better than a colored feller, then what’s the point of being white? T’wasn’t until just before lights-out that Goose reckonized Jamal’s absence. He never did come back from the trip to the barrel room. Did that mean someone did have on the miniskirt after all? Maybe Jamal was deep in some feller’s asshole right now. So Goose excused hisself to go take a shit, but then he went through to the barrel room, carrying with himself the bottle of rum he been sipping from. Sure nuff, he heared Jamal’s voice in the barrel room, and when he went in, Jamal was plowing into the behind of a much larger man. It was one the dark-haired ones who lived altogether in a corner barrack, white but swarthy — someone said they was Greek, someone else said Gypsies. Maybe both. This one was Bosko, and he was a broad-shouldered powerhouse, the miniskirt barely fitting round his waist. “Ah shit, honky, you caught me! This girl is tight!” Jamal said with a big bright smile. Bosko was strong as a ox and a foot taller than Jamal’s bitsy booty, so Jamal looked ridiculous ramming at his backdoor, like it took all of Jamal’s strength just to bump into him. Jamal then closed his eyes as he jetted his nut into Bosko’s tight ass. “Hmm, baby, you okay?” He tenderly rubbed Bosko’s asscheek. Parta the rule was that whoever weared the miniskirt was “technically” a female. You had to treat “her” like a woman, and you hadta pretend it was a different person. Jamal wasn’t sposedta ever acknowledge that it was Bosko in the miniskirt. Jamal’s whole body twitched as he shot Bosko fulla jizz. Goose got up close to watch, but there weren’t much to see, cuz Jamal done ram his whole manhood up there. All Goose sawed was Bosko’s ass quivering as he clenched and expelled Jamal’s limpening dickshaft. It plopped out with a moist shlurping sound that made Goose both chuckle and groan. “No ass.” Bosko had a thin accent to his English. He glared at Goose, as Jamal chuckled and wiped his black boy pecker off, then pulled his drawers up. Before Jamal left, he grabbed Goose by the balls through his drawers and squeezed hard enough to make Goose squirm. Then Jamal guffawed and stepped outta the barrel room. Jamal thought a white man with a big dingdong was hilarious. “Good luck, Bosko!” Jamal said. Then he hushed hisself, “I mean… lady… ma’am, whoever you is.” The door swung shut behind him, and Goose was left alone with Bosko. Goose looked sheepishly at Bosko. He showed him the third of a bottle of rum he had, which Bosko peered at, then sniffed then put in a corner with a few other bottles of liquor, beer and wine. “Mouth only.” Bosko said, his miniskirt riding up to bare his hairy Greek thighs. He got on his knees in front of Goose. He got a wide layer of scruff round his lips and a hairy chest. Shit, he was hairy enough to make the whole room smell like body hair. Goose wrinkled his nose. He ain’t never decide to do this, he just had liquor in hand and Bosko thinked that was supposed to be payment. Goose did wanna bust a load out, but damn, couldn’t they shave Bosko’s Greek ass? Or Gypsy or anywhat? Whatever race Bosko was, they was some hairballs, that was for sure. Slipping his limp dick into Bosko’s mouth, Goose furrowed his brow. Bosko made no effort to throat him. Goose had trouble getting hard like that. Bosko’s beard hairs was coarse and reminded Goose there was no woman around, and Bosko ain’t even do nothing, he just sat there gawping like a dead fish. His mouth was open, and Goose could play round in there all he wanted. Bosko ain’t even gag a bit. But he also ain’t lick it or slurp on it or make any spit or even just move his lips back and forth. Goose did the best he could. His tongue did feel good, kinda, rubbing on Goose’s meat. It felt better than Goose’s own hand anyway. It ain’t feel much like a blowjob though, more like a discount fleshlight. “Hey, I’m allowed to ram you up the asshole,” Goose said with a frown. He put his hands on his hips, then swayed his waist to make his dick limply rub over Bosko’s msuatchioed face. “I can’t even see the miniskirt like that, man.” Bosko grumbled in whatever dumbass language he spoke, but he got up onto the bed in one corner of the room. He laid on his back so his head dangled just off the back edge. “A’ight, a’ight,” Goose said with a smile. He bent his knees to get his dick into Bosko’s mouth, which stretched open to accommodate it. Goose tried to picture a woman in the miniskirt, ignoring Bosko’s hairy legs and the treasure trail going down his belly and into the miniskirt. This was more like it. With Bosko laying over the edge of the bed, Goose had a perfect angle to go deep in his throat. Bosko musta been well broke-in — damn well broke-in — cuz he ain’t resist a bit. Goose’s limpness hit the backa his throat and slipped in past his gag reflex, and that was it! A surge of melted pleasure hit Goose’s body, and he moaned as his cock flexed to full erection in moments. Goose’s pecker was too big for any woman to deep-throat, so he never got real deep like that. He did throat down some fellers pretty hard in his day, but ain’t none of ’em was as broke-open as Bosko was and ain’t mosta ’em bend over backwards like this neither. That Gypsy throat opened up deep enough that Goose’s whole erection could ram down there, his balls slapping Bosko on the nose. “Oh fuck yeah, baby…” Goose pictured one the Viking women he was gonna fuck on leave. He ain’t even needta look at the miniskirt. Later on, Goose found out Bosko was indeed a Gypsy, and they gots a rule that when they run outta liquor on rig, they draw straws and make one of they own take dick till they earn enough liquor to last till leave. Over the next couple days, Bosko musta took gallons of nut. Gypsies is like that, reckon. Bosko gagged over and over, but he got deeper on Goose’s dick than any man ever had. Goose got so into it that he even pulled down Bosko’s miniskirt as though he might see a pussy. All that was there was Bosko’s uncut cock, bouncing around. Goose chuckled at the sight, then covered it up again. He shot a fat load down Bosko’s throat. A bigger load than Goose thunk possible, wad after creamy wad filled up Bosko’s belly and overflowed from his throat. Bosko squirmed, but Goose held him tightly in place. “Fuck yeah…” Goose’s voice wavered and broke. Another flood of jizz spurted right down Bosko’s gullet. Goose’s cock was so deep in his tight throat that Bosko couldn’t spit it up if he hoped to, which he did, and his whole body be twitching as Goose spewed load after load straight into his belly. His cock plopped out, followed by a frenzy of gags and squirming retches from Bosko. Stomachfuls of jizz spilled outta Bosko’s mouth and soaked his chest, dripping down to his miniskirt. Goose was dribbling yet a few drops of nut and saliva onto Bosko’s head, even as Bosko stood and bent over to spit up into a bucket by the bed. “Goddamn, that felt good,” Goose said, backing away from Bosko. He twirled his limp dick in hand before wiping his wetness off and tucking it back in his drawers. “Lemme know when you put that thang on again, shit, lady. I’ll get a blowjob outta ya throat anytime.” Satisfied as a kitten, Goose returned to his barrack, where Jamal and them was fitting to fall asleep like wise lotuses. Goose stayed up for awhile. It felt good to be among men, but it couldn’t last. He needta see his son, rejoin civilization and prove that he could build a lake behind hisself, flowing on to the ocean yanway. Forward, he thought, forward at last.
The air was thick in wafts and gummous throughout, steamy like a sauna of algae. Harley bumped into Goose, and the gunboat smoothly glid underneath him, jostled by an occasional rock or maybe a river crocodile. Blood splattered, and water splashed. Goose leaped into action onto the pibber’s wooden deck. His own gun was hot and heavy in his hand, rumbling and jumping up and down when bullets popped outta it. His chest heaved and huffed and probably shouted out something, Goose ain’t listen, cuz he was pulling the trigger harder than anything ever been pulled. “Goose, you okay? Hey! Sampson!” That was the voice of Willamee Bowder, this old-timey feller with a gray beard and a gravel-choked throat. His voice rattled out next to Goose. Willamee sat behind the wheel of the work-truck. “You in dream-time, Sampson. We got a day’s work aheada us. Get ready.” Willamee Bowder weren’t in Vietnam. Neither was Goose. Neverthelessly, he felt a bullet pass close to his shoulder, wind like death scything down stillness. Gooks on shore musta done been were firing at the pibber, which teetered beneath Goose’s boots — turbulence from the soldiers rushing into action, shifting the weight on the boat. River water splickety-splashed, blood puddled up sticky as spillt wine and sunshine wafted like heat from an opened oven. “Yeah. I’m fine,” Goose said. He seed the work-truck come to a stop, and he seed Willamee get out from the driver’s side of the cab. Goose left the truck too, moving like a dream, no friction, no weight, no texture. The real world was a cloud whooshing by, and the whole universe lingered like a fart. His Garand made his arms shake when he fired it, the heavy gun weighing down on his tired muscles. Liquid leaked onto his ankle, hopefully river water but prolly not, as he bumped into a barrel of something or another, he couldn’t remember, but it was solid enough to stop bullets. “A’ight, old man,” Goose said to Willamee. “Hooray! Let’s get this shit unloaded! Let’s do it! Fuckhead Squad on it!” He knewed he was being too enthusastic, he wasn’t making sense to Willamee. “Come on!” he screamed. Spittle splattered afront his eyes or maybe that was tears, Goose couldn’t tell. “Get it done!” A clapping sound came from his hands coming together, and Goose jumped, fitting to work. They was laying pipes for a irrigation system at a farm — a soon-to-be farm — in Nowheresburg, California. T’was just dirt at the moment. Willamee stood beside the truck like a cowboy, furrowing his brow. Goose’s heart pumped much too fast for the situation, but he ain’t feel it. He felt only the pibber reaching rocks, which made it rattle and roll like a drummer beneath his feet. Jostling bursts of pow-pow closemostly punctuated the whitewater frothing down below. “Relax. It ain’t a race,” Willamee said. He spoke so slow, like he was talking to a retard. His words snipped and festered like skeeters from the future. “We just gotta do it! Do it! Do it!” Goose screamed at the truck. He grabbed something, some pipe or anywhat, he moved too fast to look at it. “I’s unloadin’, fuck you! You gonna help!? Huh?!” He tossed it off the truck and onto the ground. It felt like nothingness in his grip. Hot blood splattered on his face, probably Delmonico’s, cuz he died then, maybe — Goose couldn’t remember, somebody did and there was blood flecked like drool on his mouth, wonder if they told his mama that part. Water ricocheting outta the river’s turbulence washed the scarlet away. Goose saw hisself ripping irrigation piping outta the back the truck, his chest heaving like it took all his might. “Do it! Get it done, Willamee! We gotta do it! It’s the job! I’s doin’ it!” “A’ight, we will, we will, slow down, Goose, you is freakin’ out, man-“ “It’s all happenin’! We gotsto finish it!” Goose said. He either fell or jumped outta the bed of the truck — possibly intending to lay out the irrigation pipes, but they wasn’t in the right place and the ground wasn’t prepped for it and he ain’t grab the right pipes to start with. He paced like a furious pendulum. “Let’s unload this shit!” A bullet got him in the leg, and pain splintered up him. Goose yowled like a deer, and he plopped onto the pibber surface. Blood spurted, which Goose felt but ain’t see, cuz he seed hisself collapsing like a coffin into the cold California topsoil. All thanks to the Lord above, the sudden movement of his tumble and the smell of the American dirt snapped him outta it. He was fully in the present now — the year was 1986, and everything that happened was real, just like all the places between California and Vietnam was real. Death was real. Buck was real. Delaware was real — Goose seen it, he punched a fry cook at a Shoney’s in Rehobeth last year — Manhood was real. Time was real. War was real. Jury was still out on peace. He weren’t dying from that bullet in his leg cuz he done not die from it. Army doc took it out. In a tent, like on Mash! That was Korea, but the tent was the same. War is war. Comedy don’t stop bullets. That was a good show though. His heart was pumping like a dyke, liketa bust outta his chest, like that alien in that movie. “We will, we’ll do it — you’re not even unloadin’ the right shit. Slow ya toes, Goose, you gonna break something,” Willamee said. “You okay?” “I’m fine,” Goose said, and he was fine. Well, not fine, but he was finer than some things. He no longer felt Vietnam around him. He was in California, and he could touch it. He did touch it. He touched the soil to remind him what California felt like. It ain’t feel like a wetland, that was for damn sure. “I’m fine.” “What happened the’eh?” “Nothing. I’m fine,” Goose said. “Let’s get to work.” He looked at Willamee as though to explain, but he didn’t. Work answers itself, so they unloaded gear from the backa the truck. They was building heaps of farms out here. The pay was good, and they don’t got enough people in the locale to do the job. Cuz Goose had experience, they snapped him right up. He got that experience in his first prison stay, which was before he got called up for ‘Nam. T’was just a six-month bid, and he did it in comfort cuzza Goose’s daddy being dead. His daddy was a Gray Snake — the biker club — and he died in the line of duty. Gray Snakes honor they dead by gifting the orphans a lifetime of protection. That meant Goose could get right into the Gray Snakes’s good graces, soon as he arrived at the Virginia State Pen — Goose got to stealing cars in Staunton, Virginia, so he done his time across the state line. The work crew was employed laying irrigation pipes at a Mennonite farm out that way. He worked alongside this hippie sumbitch Steve. He got long stringy hair like a dirty girl and a love for LSD, which was something Goose knewed nothing about. It was everywhere a couple years later. Steve was aheada the curve on that one. “It makes you see beyond the universe. Well, not see, exactly,” Steve said by way of explanation. Goose done ask if it was like the mary jane, and Steve spent several million words explaining the difference. “But you can sense the breathing, the pulsations of the universe, the oneness of all things.” “Oneness?” “We’re all the same, really. You and me, and the trees and birds and rocks, we’re all just stellar stardust,” Steve said. “Uh-huh.” He went on, but Goose quit off listening. He ain’t need to hear tell of drugs he got no chance of doing. Plus Goose was hot on the wonder about what was for supper tonight. He hoped it was Salisbury steak. Salisbury steak was proper at the Virginia State Pen. He pondered on that, letting the desire flow through and away, contemplating the moment, not that Goose was aware of that way of thinking. Steve did, but Goose ain’t listen at the time. Steve’s wisdom only resonated in retrospect. Not a problem for a Buddhist, cuzza time being an illusion and all that. Goose could grasp his contemplation retroactively. Supper turned out to be meatloaf, which was virtually the same thing as Salisbury steak. Not as good though. Salisbury steak was meatloaf with a pretty dress and enough ass to fall in love with. Goose and Steve sat with the Gray Snakes in the mess hall, and Steve managed to stop talking about LSD. Steve weren’t really no Gray Snake, but he joined in with them after his arrest. Since he was a rank pussy and not a proper biker, the others could and did tease the hippie sucker. “Ooh, Stevina is smelling purdy today!” someone said, and they all cackled. They was calling Steve Stevina cuz he got long hair like a girl. He weared some kinda solid deodorant that smelled like wildflowers vomited into a bucket of ballsweat. Normally Goose’d join in. He was the one who came up with ‘Stevina’. But at the moment, he weren’t feeling it. Goose found out his draft number was called. He was going to ‘Nam. ‘Course, he was in prison now, so he was exempt from the draft. But his release date was in three weeks, and he’d end up transferring straight to the Army. He got only a couple days to make it to boot camp. He ain’t even got time to kiss his mama both hello and goodbye. He just hafta say aloha instead. Somebody mentioned Vietnam during dinner, so that was all Goose could think about. Even afterwards, when they was led to they cell — Goose and Steve together — Goose kept running through his options in his mind: go to boot camp or go AWOL. Goose weren’t a coward or a commie, so only one of those options was optional. He was going to war. He’d be blowing down gooks by Christmas, most likeishly. A man’s gotta give it, and a man’s gotta take it. Goose dunno yet which side of that equation was which in the grand scheme of things, but he knewed where he was in the here and now. But time is a ‘llusion, so that’s fine! “Gots to take mah mind off it, Steve,” Goose said with a sympathetic clucking of his tongue. They been back in they cell for mostuva hour. Lights out loomed ahead with ominous imminence like a war, but for now, they got free time. Not that there was much to do. There was one thing. “Aw, c’mon, Goose…” Steve hung his head. He looked up at Goose. “Uncle, I mean. C’mon, Uncle Goose-“ “Nah.” Goose weren’t really Steve’s uncle. But the Gray Snakes at the Virginia State Pen got a uncle and wife system. When a biker first does time for the Gray Snakes, he is a “wife”. That means he do laundry and shit for his cellmate. Wifey stuff. Second time, he is a “uncle”. That means he gets a wife to do his laundry. Lifers are automatically uncles, and so’s orphans, like Goose. Steve was a wife. He done sweep the floor, and he done wash Goose’s sheets today. Only one wifing duty remained. Goose plopped his ass down on Steve’s bunk, which was thin and scratchy. Steve don’t got no pillow, cuz Goose done took it. Goose leaned back on the bunk. When that ain’t prompt no response, Goose frowned at his wife. He spread his legs and aimed a nod at Steve. “Maaaaan, c’mon…” Steve murmured. He rolled his eyes, but he tacked up the curtain that blocked they door and the window in it. Outside, inmates streamed past, getting they chores done and hurrying back to they cells before lights-out, rushing like they gotsta beat a air-raid. Slow as a turtle, Steve got on his knees afront Goose. He unzipped Goose’s blue jumpsuit, which went down to his crotch; everybody had the blue jumpsuits like a uniform ‘cept the oldest inmates, who, like officers, had snazzier denim uniforms. Goose’s fat cock popped out, as long and as thick as Steve’s forearm. Steve picked that jiggly torpedo up with two fingers and sniffed it. “Ewh, dude,” he murmured. He held out his tongue as though to lick it, but then he hesitated. He held back a gag and dropped Goose’s cock. It dangled like a landmine from Goose’s overgrowed wetland of a crotch. “A wife don’t do that, Steve,” Goose said. He lightly smacked Steve’s cheek. “J’st lick it.” He done punch Steve ’bout his dallyiance. Steve was calcitrant about it. Holding his breath, Steve licked it from tip to root, his tongue moving up and down like a cat cleaning itself on an army base. He ain’t pick it up, he just licked, and it stayed limp as a dead snake, bet they got lotta snakes in Vietnam. His tongue was cold and unpleasant. “You gotsta do sump’in wit’ it, Stevina,” Goose said with a chuckle. He yawned and leaned back even farther, making his cock flop and rope round upon Steve’s face. “I’m trying,” Steve whined. His tongue done dry out, so it kinda tickled, but not much else happened, ‘cept that Goose’s draft date growed nigh, nigh as hell. He still kept his hands off Goose’s foot-long dick. It was like blubber in his hands, haggling and wiggling. “It’s not getting hard.” “Tha’ss cuz you’s j’st playin’ wit’ it, baby,” Goose said. He shrugged. “I kinda like it. No rush. Take all night if’n you want.” With a sigh, Steve took hold of Goose’s cock by the root with one hand, his other hand slowly working up and down the shaft. Then he put his mouth on the tip for just a moment. “Can I just use my hands? No mouth?” “Nah. That ain’t proper wifing,” Goose said. “Would you marry a woman who only use her hands?” “Well, I mean…” “I got hands, Stevina,” Goose said. He aimed his crotch to bap his dickfat onto Steve’s nose. “I can’t reach mah mouf onto mah pecker. Only you can do that.” Steve sighed, only for the deep breath to almost make him gag again. He held it back, and he again planted his tongue on Goose’s shaft. He spat on it. Both his hands worked up and down, and he got a good rhythm going. Goose gotsta give him that one. But he kept spitting on Goose’s dick. His tongue sorta glancingly touched it. He ain’t slurp on it though. He be shirky-dicking, that’s what that is. Goose don’t tolerate it in a prison wife. He pushed Steve’s mouth onto his knob. “C’mon, hold it in ya mouf, Stevina.” He closed his eyes. “Just hold the tip there and move ya tongue, make lotta spit.” As Steve began to get a rhythm with his hands, Goose let out a little moan. “There you go, there you go,” he said. Steve either spat or gagged up spit, either way, it got some moisture onto Goose’s knob. It slowly firmed up in Steve’s grip, not so much from Steve’s touch as from Goose’s imagination. He let himself remember women from back home — that was the only way he could stop thinking about his upcoming enlistment. He wanna recollect local women. Virginia gals sure is gorgeous, pretty as peanuts. Goose tightened his grip on Steve’s head. He pushed down, gently, but dumbass Steve couldn’t even take that, and he erupted into a ferocious gag. “Uccckkkkkk!” Steve spat up into the toilet. He clutched the rim. “Man, dude, c’mon. That tastes so bad!” Wondering if Army got latrines or what in the field, in Vietnam, Goose stood. His hefty cock slapped back and forth. It bapped Steve on the face a couple times, as Steve winced but avoided outright whining. He sat on his ass. “Okay, wait, I can get you off-“ “Nah. I have trouble cummin’ from mouf-stuff,” Goose said with a chuckle. He done tell Steve that before, but Steve really admired to avoid taking Goose’s meat up behind. He motioned for Steve to get off his ass, which Steve did slowly. “C’mon, man, don’t harsh my mellow,” Steve said. He wearily got up and gripped the wall with both hands. He was already wincing like he was in pain, like a prisoner of war in a bamboo cage. Goose swaggered his thickness behind Steve, who unzipped his jumpsuit slow as a aircraft carrier and let it drop to his ankles. He shivered. Goose thwapped his cock on Steve’s lower back, which was a signal for Steve to stand on his toes. He did so, and Goose bent his knees too. That lined up his dick with Steve’s ass. He rammed hard at the hole, way too hard to actually go in. Steve winced as Goose’s cock deflected like a bullet off a tank and slid up his buttcrack. Then Goose aimed it again. “A’ight, open up, wifey-“ “Owww, shiiiiit!” Steve cried out and clopped his face onto the wall. He tensed up, but Goose got the tip of his dick in there. Steve clenched, trying to expel Goose’s meat. Goose was ready for that. Like a draft board, he weren’t taking ‘ow shit’ for a answer. He rammed hard, and Steve slammed into the wall. Goose kept pushing, getting a couple inches of dickmeat in. “Ow, c’mon, wait a sec, wait-“ “Sssssh,” Goose said. He got a fistful of Steve’s hair in one hand and pulled it to get Steve’s attention. “Remembuh? Wifey? Say sexy thangs.” Steve howled in pain, as Goose kept pushing in deeper. He did spit on his hand, smearing that on his shaft. That was being nice, like a GI Joe. He ain’t got to. Once you get real deep in a booty, it ain’t possible to clench no more. Steve was past that point. Maybe some words was gurgling outta Steve’s mouth, but they ain’t make no sense. Steve be squirming like a vermin. Prolly got lotta rats in Vietnam too. How’s a country gonna have lotta both rats and snakes? One them had gotta give! “C’mon, say sexy thangs or I’mma lose mah hardon,” Goose said. That weren’t true, this was feeling better than it had in awhile — Goose was really letting loose, and Steve was broke-in enough that Goose could pound hard. Waves of pleasure hit Goose with each thrust into him, and Steve’s whole body puckered and shook on the withdraw. Goose held him by his long hippie hair. “Oooh, uh, baby, ooh, I love you,” Steve said, panting. He ain’t sound sexy at all. That was fine. Goose appreciated the effort. As a wild waft of sensations rocked his body, Goose let out a chest-rattling moan. He pumped his dick in deep, and he held it in place all the way up Steve’s behind. A tense howl came outta Steve’s mouth — do they got wolves? Nah… — then he clamped it shut. Goose shot a fat wad deep up his guts, and he ain’t think about the Army the whole time. “Aaaah-“ “Ewww, c’mon-” Steve bit his lip. Goose do dole out punches for whine. Steve hung his head and kept his whine to hisself. Another burst of jizz coated his booty. Goose pistoned his hips as hard as he could, and Steve yelped. More melty bliss hit Goose’s senses, and he sighed and moaned, collapsing his body onto Steve’s back. Steve smushed his face into the floor as though to burrow outta here. One more final cumwad sprayed into him. But Goose ain’t pull out right away. He savored the long slow undulations rocking through his muscles, as his sweat smeared onto Steve’s back. Steve’s hands fluttered behind hisself like a Vietnamey butterfly — Goose was assumpting Vietnam got butterflies, everybody got butterflies. Steve patted and clawed at Goose’s hairy asscheeks the best he could reach. “Sssh, almost done, almost done,” Goose murmured. He lifted his chest off Steve, and he rolled his body, flexing all his muscles as he humped his exquisitely sensitive dick in Steve’s ass. Steve grunted, pounding on the cold cement floor. “C’mon, man…” Steve whispered through clenched teeth. Goose let his cock plop out, slowly, inch by inch. Steve winced and seethed the whole time, cuz Goose made him poop his meat out. That meant it hurt more and more with every passing moment. Then at last, Goose’s meat dropped to sway between his legs, glistening with jizz and booty juices. “You gotta relax about Vietnam. You gotta abandon your attachments to earthly struggle. Can’t argue with a river, can’t worry a bridge into existence,” Steve said as he gingerly wiped his ass clean with a wad of toilet paper. “You probably won’t even end up on the front lines.” Goose slapped him. “Bitch, don’t bring that up!”
Goose robbed a grocery store in Wheeling at the tail end of 1983, went off smooth as a cat in a puddle of butter. Nobody said nothing about it when he got back to Martinsburg. He ain’t even spend none the cash yet. He was too focused on Buck, who be shooting up like a sunflower. Lil Buck and his buddy Cody was spending they days exploring the woods, wrassling, getting into shit. It made Goose wish he was a boy again. Li’l boys like Buck crave the sombriety of adulthood, but soon as they grow up, they only wish was being young again. Goose admired watching Buck and Cody tussle. That ain’t last long though. The cops showed up to Smashwood one day soon after he returned for his visit, clapped him up and brung him to the clink. Goose ended up pleading guilty so he could claim the money burnt up in a fire. Detectives ain’t believe him, but the judge did. Store got they insurance company to reimburse ’em, so ain’t nobody looking for the cash. When Goose got outta prison, he’d be able to spend some tender at last. No more cheapy-deeping for this hillbilly! He gonna give mosta it over to Missus Dowdy anyway — that was who Buck was staying with right now. He called her Grammaw Daisy. Prison turnt out to be not too bad. Food was awful, but leastways there was enough, and the guards let the Army vets all share a cell block. And holy hokey-pokey, Harley was there! His old Army buddy Harley was arrested a couple months back and was in the West Virginia Pen for a spell — he was arrested in Huntington, and he weren’t from West Virginia, so he don’t know he’s sposedta be humiliated by that. It felt good as gravy to be with Harley once more. It felt like the army again, but in a good way. Not a Vietnamey in sight. That’s what Masterson and Berringer was saying, Goose now reckoned. They said to seek brotherhood, and here he was, surrounded by brothers. Dog tag brothers steada womb brothers. They done gone through the same trials and tripplations, and they done survive ’em. Goose was sadly glad to learn ain’t none of ’em — Harley included — make the transition to civilian life. All of ’em was struggling, and though they ain’t much talk about it, them’all got feelings in concert, difficulties in a row, memories sharing silhouettes against the same firelight. “And I ain’t nevuh menace that man, nuh-huh!” Harley done explain the situation that got him locked up bunchesa times, and he maintained his innocence in the whole affair. Or at least his innocence as to the menacing charges that got him locked up for a year. He pled guilty to those in exchange for more serious charges getting dropped. He ain’t dispute those more serious charges. “Cops is fucked, man,” Goose said with a sigh. He was tired of agreeing with Harley on this matter. Bucket hooch be bubbling away in one corner of the cell, which was filled with the yeasty aroma of drunken futures. Goose got three buckets working off right now, taking up halfa the cell. The guards let ’em get away with it — just this cell block, fulla veterans — and Goose was gonna make a pretty penny selling it soon. Not ready yet though. “Cuz I admit — I does admit, I was there, I was waving a gun around. Wouldn’t use it on a lady, mind you, I don’t shoot ladies,” Harley said, tapping his feet in sync with the melody of the calypso song they was listening to — they done bought some cassettes from a Jamaican on another cell block. It reminded them both, Harley and Goose, of boot camp, before anything happened. Neither them two acknowledged that. Neither one done spoke word one of boot camp, Army or Vietnam yet. T’was nice to be with a man who savvied without you savvying him. It was a happy calypso, but they both frowned through it, cuz it reminded them of the unspokeable river that will have done been flowing underneath and of Lucent, who shot hisself last year. Harley be puffing on his cigarette, leaning against the cell bars like he might could see something interesting out there. Ain’t nothing interesting out there. That’s the whole point of prison. That’s the best parta it from a Asian perspective: prison can be torture or meditation, depending on how you hope to experience it. Goose chose torture at the time, as most people do most always. Enlightenment is the option that’s always at hand but is hard as torture to choose. Harley was a burly sumbitch, with a rusty mustache that extended down to his beard hairs. He was a ruddynut whombody from Pennsylvania. That means he got red hair, but it’s the darkest possible shade of red with the swarthiest skin color that comes with red hair. He was like a ginger who been baked to crispy brown. He used the cherry at the end of his smoke to light his next smoke. Harley be doing that. He worked as a mechanic before his arrest and after in the prison automotive shed, so he drew upon a good wage for a convict. He was swimming in cigarettes. Goose stockpiled his. He waited till he genuinely needed a cigarette before smoking one. He coulda bummed some off Harley. But Harley’d want something in return, likeishly a buncha free pulls on the bucket hooch when it was ready. But now, as the cell block started to quiet down in advance of lights out, Goose let hisself burn one. He savored the warmly blissful sensation of smoke filling his lungs, filling his veins with calm, filling his mind with sultry relaxation. It made him both alert and sleepy, like a blowjob from a ugly librarian. He ain’t chain-smoke, so as he could anticipate his next ciggie. In prison, a feller has gotto find things to look forward to, or so did Goose think at the time. Nowadays he do advise a feller to abandon attachments and all that jazz. Pecan, Monongahela, ocean, done. Most fellers in prison got alotta attachments keeping ’em on the riverbank. “That colored boy is comin’ ’round again,” Harley said with a guilty chuckle. He looked at Goose. “You gunna do it again?” Goose shook his head. “Go fer it, man,” he said. He took another drag on his cigarette. He assumed ‘the colored boy’ meant this big-ass feller named Wimpy, who be coming round for to sell these larrupin’ apple pies he made in the kitchen. They was like turnovers, and they was tasty as a Vietnamey pussy, swan to God. Goose be eating them up! Last time Wimpy came by, Goose bought one pie with the ciggies he had on him, then two more he paid for with future hooch — first batch to be done, he gotsta give up cupfuls to Wimpy. He don’t like the idea of being in hock to any man. Not just a colored man neither, any man. So Goose done say he weren’t doing that again. But damn doodle, them pies was calling to him! It turned out not to be Wimpy after all, it was a different colored boy. His name was Jugs, and his special skill was that he got lipstick. He was dark-skinned like charcoal with big white eyes and teeth. He was slim but well-muscled — prolly bigger on the outside, but he been locked up for awhile, and he was owned by this tub of brown Darren who be swiping his food-meals. Darren do make Jugs go on all around and jerk men off for cash. Jugs don’t get to keep none of it neither. That’s called ‘punking’. It prolly mean Jugs do heroin, and Darren won’t give him none unless he earns his keep. Since Jugs was broke as smoke, he got no way of gathering tender ‘cept by jerking fellers off. He use his mouth too. Narsty! “Jerk ya off? Jerk ya off?” Jugs strolled among the cells, making offers. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears. Goose never did see him cry, but he stayed sounding like he was holding back a sob. Maybe that was his normal voice. Goose looked down on that. A man’s gotta keep his nose up, no matter what. Women cry and go limp when they get in a bad situation. A man’s gotta take action. Can’t take action when you’s bothered up hot, bawling like a waterfall. Somebody musta said yes finally, cuz Jugs couldn’t be heared no more. Some titters of laughter over by Hash and Tingle and them suggested it was one those fellers who done it, prolly Hash, cuz he was like that. Cells was locked, but a feller could stick his dingus ‘tween the cell bars, and Jugs could slurpy-durp no problem that way. He puts a towel over his head, so you ain’t gotta look at him. Used to charge a half-packa smokes more to put a picture of Farrah Fawcett atop the towel, but Warden conscifated the fuck outta that. Gotta respect a lady. “You should do it,” Harley said with a chuckle. He got out a pack of smokes, ready to do it the moment Jugs came by. Goose sighed and shrugged. He did kinda wanna blow a nut. But the reason Harley hope him to do it and the reason Goose was reluctant was the same — Goose got a giant cock. That was how that he got his name, after all. It was like a goose’s neck. But Jugs was little and got a shallow throat, and he don’t even try to swallop deep. Darren don’t care about customer complaints. T’was barely worth it to Goose. His own hand go as far up and down as he want it to. All thirteen inches. Goose done had enough of shallow head. “C’mon, I wanna see you cover his face again,” Harley said with a cackle and a laugh. He mimed Jugs’s gagging last time when Goose shot his massive wad all over his face — all over his face and not down his throat cuz Jugs don’t swallow worth a goose turd. That made it funny for Harley to watch but disappointing for Goose to pay for. Last time Goose ain’t cum since before he got to the pen, so he had loads built up. He shot so much Jugs was sopping wet, huge wads of it overflowing his mouth, soaking his shirt and making his brown skin gleam white, knappy hair dripping with it. Jugs did retch as Harley guffawed and slapped his knee. Then Jugs scurried away. It was funny, Goose hadta admit that. But it ain’t feel especially good, and Goose had swollen balls then. That was only a week ago. He ain’t build up that much this time. “You go’an drown that boy,” Harley said, already laughing as hard as he did last time. Ain’t nothing even happen yet. Jugs musta done wipe his face offa Hash’s nutjuice but miss a spot, cuz there was some goopy circles of jiss on his forehead and dripping off his earlobe. That made Harley cackle again. He got a hyena-like laugh that irked Goose, though it was infectious, and it made Goose smile along with him, reminding Goose of worse times but in a good way. “Jerk ya off?” Jugs said. He was hurrying past, no doubt hoping nobody’d say yes. “Heck yeah, get on ya knees, boy!” Harley clapped and cackled again. He opened up his pack of smokes and put one cigarette behind his ear, then tossed the pack to Jugs — Jugs was required to accept that as payment of a pack of smokes. It was one cigarette short, which made Jugs a better deal than mosta the other punks in this prison. The resta them charged a full pack. Harley got his britches down and his dick dangling through the cell bars before Jugs even smeared the lipstick on his lips. When he did, he smacked them cherry-red lips together. He picked up Harley’s dick with two fingers and put it in his mouth. He held back a gag as he went down to the root, smearing lipstick along the shaft all the way into Harley’s light burgundy crotch hair. A sigh escaped from Harley’s lips as Jugs put the towel up over his face. He started off without the towel so the fellers watching could see the lipstick. Was sposedta make it feel more like a woman. Goose was dubious about that. He finished his cigarette and snubbed it out. He then got up and checked on his hooch, drained his bladder into the toilet and sat back down. He wanna do his workout, but the buckets of hooch took up half the cell and Harley’s bare ass dimpling as he humped the cell bars took up mucha the rest. Harley ain’t got a huge dick. It weren’t nothing to be ashamed of, it wasn’t small, but it was small enough to be easy for Jugs to swallow it. Even with the cell bars separating him from Harley’s reddish-furred crotch, Jugs got that whole cock in his mouth. His nose was buried in Harley’s pubes. Every couple seconds Jugs’s whole body undulated, but he held back his gags. He choked up spit that dripped onto the cell bars. A long low moan escaped from Harley, who turned the sound into a laugh, followed by a gut-hurtingly loud retch from Jugs. “Uhnnk…” Both Jugs and Harley made similar sounds. First couple bursts of jizz went straight into Jugs’s throat. Jugs squealed moistly and squirmed, pulling off Harley’s pecker in time for one final cumwad to jet onto his face. Harley’s hands pulled through the cell bars in an attempt to get Jugs back on his dick, but he couldn’t reach. “Ewwck-“ “C’mon, punk, finish it off!” Harley groaned and grunted, his hips still flexing as if to fuck the cell bars themselves. He finished himself off with one hand though, draining the last of his juices onto the floor outside the cell. Holding back a peal of gags, Jugs wiped his face off with that towel. He paused, clutching his stomach as though to force all that nastiness to stay down. When he had recovered, Jugs looked at Goose. “Hey, you’re the one they call Goose, right?” Goose nodded. “Well, uh… my man, Darren — my husband-” Jugs winced as he said that. “He said, uh… He said you can have a free ride on my ass, if you promise to give up a cupful of hooch when it’s ready.” “Ah, sheeit, boy, you gettin’ booty!” Harley said. He grabbed for Goose’s crotch to pull his denim prison trouser-pants down, but Goose slapped his hand away. “Ass? I dunno… Tha’ss dui’ty.” Goose ain’t want a reputation as a booty bandit. He ran his fingers through his hair, but he sighed. “Ain’t ya big ol’ dick still work?” Harley asked. Goose said, “Yeah, shuddup, Harley.” A sigh drug its way outta his chest. “But you best take the whole thang, Jugs.” He stood up. “You got lard, right?” Jugs nodded with a sick frown on his face. He pulled out a little metal tin, half-fulla lard from the kitchen. “I don’t have much, I don’t — just go slow, okay?” Black boys in prison foreverlasting got lard. Ain’t no better lube in the world. Goose snorted. He stood up and dropped his denims. When Jugs sawn Goose’s cock, he looked even sicker, he musta done forgot how big it was. Well over a foot long and thicker than a can of beer, it unfurled between Goose’s legs and swung back and forth. Frown lingering on his face, Jugs kneeled with his back to the cell bars, ass pressed against ’em. He let the steel bars pull his cheeks apart. Harley cackled up Jugs’s butthole and smacked each cheek the best he could by reaching between the cell bars. Harley later on claimed Jugs got jisms dripping out his ass, but he was funning, Jugs got dark skin and cum would be visible if it was there. It weren’t. It was just a funnier story to tell if he got a dripsy butthole. “Nah,” Goose said. “Stand up. Mah knees get sore kneeling.” Plus Goose was much taller than Jugs, so it’d be awkward to plow into his ass kneeling. And through the cell bars? Not easy. “Oh, c’mon, man, c’mon, it hurts like that,” Jugs said. Goose shrugged. “No complainin’, or I’s allowed to tell Darren you wasn’t cooperating.” “No, don’t! I am! I’m doing it!” Jugs said amid a storm of wincing and cringing. “Don’t tell him that.” “Then don’t fight me, punk. I’ll be quick,” Goose said. He wondered when he had done agreed to this. He ain’t never say yes, but Harley and Jugs both assumed he would, and Goose ain’t wanna back out now. They’d accuse him of having a donkeydoodle that don’t work right. Jugs stood up, his underpants pulled down to bare his taut asscheeks. He stood with them separated by the cell bars, revealing his tight brown hole, no dribbles of nut. Jugs bent over, keeping his knees straight and pushing his ass up as high as he could. It looked much too small to take all of Goose’s dick. But Goose done acquire plentya experience forcing his pecker into a man’s behind. They was surprisingly accommodatious, and you know a black punk done took plentya giant black-boy peckers. Goose bent his knees a little to lower it enough to aim for Jugs’s hole. He got the tip in easy enough, the lard helping it slide right in. But then he hit resistance, and Jugs seethed through his teeth. “Ow, wait, wait-“ “Okay, okay, just spread it open,” Goose said. He weren’t waiting though. He kept pushing, forcing Jugs’s ass to open wider and wider. Jugs’s hands fluttered behind his back as if he could do something that way, but that made it hard to remain bent over on all fours. His face plopped onto the floor. “Owwwww!” Jugs cried out and slipped away from the cell bars. “Ow, shit!” “Hey! Punk-ass, mothahfuckah, get ya black ass back on mah dick,” Goose said. “Or I’s tellin’ Darren-“ “Okay, okay, honky, shit,” Jugs muttered. With a weary groan, he got back in position. He squatted like to force out a troublesome turd, and he again backed his ass up to the cell bars. When Jugs came in one of slipping off again, Harley saved the day by grabbing Goose’s sweat-soaked tee shirt from the basket of dirty clothes. He lassooed it around Jugs’s head through the cell bars, holding it tight in one hand so Jugs couldn’t complain or move his head. That forced Jugs to stay in position, even as Goose forced his fist-thick dick into Jugs’s tender tight ass. Jugs seethed through the sweaty tee shirt in his mouth, making a series of rhythmic grunts with each thrust of Goose’s cock into him. “He’uh I go, boy, he’uh I go, c’mon…” Goose’s voice broke as pleasure hit him hard. The one bad side of a big dick was that it took a lot of effort to get hard and a lot to go over the edge. Finally Goose stepped over that edge, and a fat wad jetted into Jugs’s asshole. Jugs winced. Goose pumped his hips hard, his heart beating fast now, chest sweating. A grand sigh escaped from his lungs. More cum spurted into his guts, and Goose let out a long low sigh as an orgasm overwhelmed him. “Aww, sheeit, Jugs…” That felt good, Goose thought, damn good. Finally his dick popped out, followed by a torrent of jiss that stained Jugs’s ass white. Goose ain’t realize he was still cumming, so he grabbed his cock and stroked his last few spurts of jizz out with both hands. It coated Jugs’s left asscheek in ropes of cream. Harley cackled and lit yet another cigarette. “Shit, that was hilarious,” he said. Goose chuckled as he wiped his dick clean with toilet paper. He nodded sheepishly. “That did feel good,” he thunk. But now he owed three whole cupfuls of bucket hooch, and he ain’t even finish making one batch yet. Bucket hooch is temporary as rain, apple pies is fleeting like a waterfall, and orgasms last only a moment. Goose’s hillbilly ass be fording a river fulla them things, when he needta be flowing down ’em. He knew all that, cuz prison was nothing but studyment, but he ain’t yet have a sense of vairagya, ain’t even have the word. He thought the other bank of the river was too far away to reach, but in fact, t’was the distant ocean that was right at hand. Goose kept across the stream disregardless.
Bits of brain was softly salty, and clots of blood sparked a metallic fire on Goose’s tongue. Them was Sam’s brains he was tasting, slimy and slippery, savory in a unsavory way. Sam’s head exploded, so his brain filled the air that previously tasted only of steamy wetlands and muddy bark. The toothpaste in Goose’s mouth frothed up and out, and the sizzling bite of gunpowder filled the air. Campfire smoke dried Goose’s lips, as he hurried into cleaner-tasting air away from the ambush and the puffs of gunpowder from the gunshots him and Harley and them — Fuckhead Squad — aimed behind theyselfs. Mud boot-splashed up onto Goose’s face and mouth. He mighta ate a gecko. Acrid ash filtered onto his tongue, and so did the dreary rinse of a slow drizzle. Vietnamese rain tasted of old tea and fresh earthworms. Prolly the sniper was aiming for Goose, Goose reckoned that now. But Sam done got in trouble for collaborating with the Americans, so at the time, Goose thunk they was ambushing Sam to execute him as a traitor. In the next couple seconds, Masterson and Berringer took it too. Goose ain’t gotto taste they brains though. Goose stood with his hands in the air, surrounded by the comfortable trailers of his West Virginia home, tasting the blood and chewy ear of a Vietnamey he done bit before they got him and Harley surrounded in that jungle. He saw cops pointing guns at him, but his tongue stayed trained on Vietnam. Surrender tasted like chicory. He musta done gone and went off again. He frightened the ladies of Smashwood Trailer Park enough that the police came to take him on away. Buck sawn it. That put shame in Goose’s soul. He admiredta be the rock for that boy, and there he was shrieking and screaming like a sheep at slaughter. He mighta begged, he dunno who he was begging for what, but Goose felt it happen and Buck prolly seed it. A boy need a rock to anchor him, like a man need a wife to tame him. He’s in jail again. Goose be jammed, a pecan stuck in driftwood. “Martin.” T’was Masterson’s voice. He came outuva mist yanway into Goose’s cell, followed by Berringer. Them both was yankees, but Goose got no quarrel with ’em. A distant drum sounded, bouncing on the sobs of a melody. “Where’d you two come from?” Goose asked. He sat up upon his bunk. “You dead.” Berringer nodded. “You aren’t. You’re as alive as the jungle,” Masterson said. Goose liketa say something. He got too many words fighting for a spot upon his tongue, so his mouth only opened, and nothing came out. Masterson waited long enough for Goose to not say all the things he wanna say, and Masterson and Berringer nodded like they knew ’em already. “Your heart is on fire, your pain a lie, and yet still, you may wash away your unlovelies,” Masterson said. Berringer nodded like a turtle. “I don’t unnuhstand,” Goose said. He weren’t expecting clarity though, so he ain’t ask no questions. “I wish I died the’uh wit’choo.” Berringer shook his head. “You don’t. You have a son to be here for. You came home for him.” “It don’t really feel like I came home,” Goose said. “The resta Fuckhead Squad done move on, I ‘xpect. Those that lived.” “No,” Berringer said. “They didn’t. They ain’t.” A smile fooled upon his face. “They ain’t done move on still.” His yankee accent clashed with his Appalachian words. “Nobody has. Maybe nobody does. They are all hungry ghosts, and we are mere peaches.” “The past never goes away, Martin,” Masterson said. Ain’t nobody in the Army call him Martin. His squadmates called him Goose. Officers called him Sampson. Only in death did his proper name emerge. “Why not?” “The past is your river. Remember that rivers never flow in a circle,” Masterson said. “Your pain and your anger is the Navy bringing you home. The route is long, but the way is wise.” Berringer added, “In life, in death, in the next life, in heaven or hell, home is always there, waiting for you with enlightenment and grace.” Goose shrank back. He ain’t understand they’s words, but he couldn’t concentrate on ’em anyway. Masterson and Berringer remained blurry like glasses, and the mist they arrived in spread into Goose’s cell. “I dunno what you is sayin’,” Goose said. “What if’n I hurt my son?” “What happens will happen and will be a step closer to home, for him and for you,” Masterson said. Goose sniffled. “Things felt right in Vietnam. With y’all and me and Harley, when we was together, it felt right. It wasn’t, but it felt right, or that part of it did.” “That is because we were on the same path to different homes then,” Berringer said. “The brotherhood of the same path can still be there for you.” “Seek brotherhood, and you will find home,” Masterson said. “Go now, Martin. You have work a-plenty ahead of you.” They walked back into the mist then, leaving Goose to his studyment. He dried out for what may have been eons in the jail cell. He dunno if he slept, he dunno if he raged and fought someone, he dunno if he sobbed or hung hisself. He just was. By the time Goose’s head was clear as a mirror, he was sitting in the interrogation room in Precinct 17. Sheriff Torkelson came on in. He had a dense mustache, properly trimmed, though his chin and cheeks was grizzled with unshaved scruff. His work-hard face was haggard as a burnt-down barn. Sheriff Torkelson looked down his nose at Goose for a long time. Then he sat in the chair opposite Goose. “You gonna behave proper, son? I don’t like fellers kicking up in mah town.” “Yessuh.” A long pause sat between ’em. Goose was still dazed, like he was wrapped in cotton balls. He couldn’t remember how long it’d been since the cops came for him. He wouldn’ta been surprised to learn that was an hour ago or last month. “So what happened?” Sheriff Torkelson asked. Goose shrugged. “J’st lost it, suh,” he said. “Lost what?” Goose shrugged again. “Dunno. But it’s gone.” “You gotsta get a grip, son. War’s over. Act like it,” Torkelson said. His mustache showed off a frown. “Don’t nobody got no sympathy for a stuck man. Move yaself on, or I’ll move ya.” Sheriff Torkelson wrinkled his nose, which made his mustache wrinkle, which caused his lip to tremble, which resulted in the dimpling of his cheeks. “Since you a veteran, I’ll give you a chance to prove yaself, to show that you is dedicated to stayin’ outta trouble.” Torkelson stood up. He looked down his nose at Goose, then he dropped his uniform britches just low enough to bare his crotch. He lowered his tight-whites too, and his fattyfoo popped Goose on the forehead. With a roll of his eyes, Goose opened his mouth. He considered saying no, telling the sheriff to send him to prison, but Goose ain’t wanna miss out on Buck. If he was in prison, he wouldn’t even get a visit with Buck, and he wouldn’t be able to send no money to Miss Junebug (that’s who Buck was currently staying with and pretending she was his grammaw). So he parted his lips, and Sheriff Torkelson pushed his cock in. The flavor of unwashed flesh hit Goose’s tongue. He done tasted much worse. He ain’t pluss about it. He just closed his eyes and pretended he was floating down the lazy Monongahela, going with the flow, accepting the currents and rapids for what they is. Can’t blame a dick for stiffing, can’t blame a river for flowing, can’t blame a feller for doing what is to be done. Ain’t so bad. Goose focused on not gagging. Steve and Sam and all the rest was exaggerating when they went gaggy-waggy. Or maybe Goose’s pecker tasted worse than others. Maybe bigger dicks tasted worse than littler ones. “Hmmmmmmm…” Torkelson murmured. His balls swayed afronta Goose’s chin. Goose’s lips stretched around the shaft until he could swallow the whole thing. It firmed up slowly against Goose’s tongue. Torkelson pumped his hips, humping the wetness of Goose’s mouth. Goose’s muscles tensed and quivered, as it took all of his concentration to not gag. It weren’t hard. Or maybe it was, it seemed like it’d be easy if he could quit off thinking about it. Like maybe if he was watching TV, then it’d be fine. Torkelson’s whole cock fit in Goose’s mouth, and his nose got a deep sniff of Torkelson’s coppery pubes. His face was nuzzled deep in that crotch hair, which mighta been longer than his dick. The hairs was scratchy and woolish. “You might wanna take a job on an oil rig,” Torkelson said, his voice rumbling and wavering, like he was stone-facing, though Goose could see only them short and curlies. His pecker pulsated against Goose’s tongue. “Get yaself outta town, make a few bucks. Can’t get in trouble if you is tired from work. You unduhstand me?” Goose nodded with the cock in his mouth, and the motion triggered a gag he couldn’t swallow down. A mouthload of saliva and precum plopped into Goose’s lap. That liketa trigger another gag, maybe even a retch, but Goose worked out that one. He choked it back. “Cuz this is ya second chance, son-” Torkelson grunted, and his voice broke. He put his hands on Goose’s head, leaning onto him and pumping his hips back and forth. He was treating Goose’s throat like a pussy now, and his droopy ballsack slapped over and over on Goose’s chin. “You won’t get a third one.” Cum spurted into Goose’s mouth. It was goopy and cottony, intensely salty, and Goose couldn’t help but retch now. Sheriff Torkelson let out a hair-raising moan, and his sweaty balls crawled up in his sac. Fat bursts of jizz overflowed from Goose’s mouth and splattered all over his face. “Swallow it, son,” Sheriff Torkelson said, his dick throbbing in Goose’s mouth like a second heart. A few more drops dribbled into Goose’s mouth. “Don’t let it spill,” he said as he slowly withdrew his cock, which dribbled a couple final drops of nut onto Goose’s chin. Goose hadta fight against his urge to gag or spit or let it plop outta his mouth. That was tough. That was worth a gag. Goose couldn’t resist anyway, so he let himself gag as he struggled to swallow. Jizz slid like snot down his throat, and it sat hotly in his belly. “Ewwcckkk…” He did spit up some. It even came out his nostrils when he couldn’t keep it down. It wetted his shirt to his chest. He recomposed hisself, then let out one more gag. “Hmm-hmm…” Sheriff Torkelson murmured as though he was expecting yet disappointed by Goose’s gagging. Goose looked up and quieted his throat. “Yessuh,” he said, clutching his belly to keep from spitting up all that jizz he just swallowed. “Get outta here, son,” Sheriff Torkelson said once his dick was tucked away. “And don’t lemme catch you raisin’ a ruckus again in mah town.”
