Lem was the one who told Buck about “the hole room”. Buck first thought Lem said “the whole room”, and he was mystified about what that meant.
“You can stick it in the hole in the hole room,” Lem said — Buck thought — and when Lem saw that Buck didn’t get it, Lem repeated it. “The hole room. Stick ya dick in it.”
“I stick my dick in the whole room?”
Lem nodded. He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, whiteboy, you walkin’ ’round wit’ a hardon, I seen that. Let’s go. It’s nasty, and ain’t nobody enjoy peepin’ that. You got a hundred bucks?” He grabbed Buck’s dick through his oil-soaked jeans.
“I still dunno what you mean!” Buck said with a grin. “I put my whole dick in the room?”
“That ain’t what I said,” Lem said. “You are one straight-up retarded white-trash bigfoot.” He opened the door and went in. Buck followed. Lem pointed to a hole in the wall and said, “There.”
Buck looked at the hole. He furrowed his brow. He still hadn’t realize this was the hole room, not the whole room — Buck wasn’t much of a reader, so he wasn’t even aware those words were spelled differently. “This is it?” Buck asked, meaning is this the entire room?
So he was surprised when Lem nodded. “Yep. Ain’t you was in jail a couple weeks, right?”
Buck had told Lem that, about when Buck and his post-high-school wrestling team had gotten drunk and picked a fight, Buck spent two weeks in jail. Lem had spent nine years in prison.
The hole was the only thing in the room. It stank in here, but other than that, Buck didn’t know why he had come here. He smiled like this was a prank he understood. He looked into the hole, but all he saw on the other side of the wall was another empty room.
“Ain’t ya jail got a gloryhole?” Lem said. He had a lopsided grin, which revealed his yellowed teeth. He took a folded hundred-dollar bill out of the pocket of his workjeans. He undid the belt, let the jeans fall to his ankles, then waddled to the hole. He lowered his underwear just enough to bare his crotch.
“You put ya dick in there?! You pissin’?” Buck’s eyes opened wide and he stepped back. He couldn’t actually see Lem’s cock from behind, but it was obvious where he had placed it. “What — What the fuck, Lem? What’s in there?! Is it gettin’ cut off?”
“You gots a fool mind, redneck. You think I’s stickin’ my dick in a hole to cut it off?” Lem asked. He had an odd look on his face that Buck couldn’t identify, and Lem’s ropy muscles all flexed like he was humping the hole.From Buck the Roughneck
Author: MNManmacker
Beach sauna
Dale and Poahi wore their togs under trousers, and Poahi wore leggings below that. They came to the beach in big puffy coats. It was, of course, deserted. Wind-swept waves battered the beach, and the sun beat down on the sand, adding bright light but not a mote of heat.
They brought tarps too. So did Keith and the other dudes in the 504 Crew. They arranged the tarps over the top and openings of the showerhouse on the beach, then they put lawnchairs in, turned on the hot water and rolled some joints. Heat from the hot water was trapped in the showers by the tarps. The heat reacted with the cold to create a billowing cloud of steam that stayed beneath the tarps.
So that was the annual beach sauna tradition. They sat in the heat, drank beer from an ice-filled cooler and smoked joints, had a real-man korero and, eventually, if they got drunk enough, they’d go for a brief swim before scurrying back into the warm sauna.
That was a tradition Poahi loved. He wished the others would quiet — it seemed meditative, Poahi thought. It should be meditative. The steam was relaxing. If this were a Maori tradition, it would have a spiritual side. People would be silent mostly, interrupting it with an occasional waiata. But Americans do not have a spiritual side, and they simply chatted and drank beer and dared each other to enter the freezing cold ocean.From Poahi the Lackey
Scotty Sambone
Scotty Sambone was a short spit of a man, with one heavily tattooed sleeve that ended just past his elbow. He was so tanned he looked Portuguese, but Poahi did not think Scotty Sambone was Portuguese. He was just a white man who spent all his time on the beach, with a rugged sea-cucumber-like face.
From Poahi the Lackey
504 Crew
Dale and Poahi saw this area of the beach as their own — the two of them and their buddies, the 504 Crew, as they called themselves — so they walked like shirtless sheriffs down the beach. They made sure tourists didn’t swarm the place, and they yelled at kids who littered or leered at women. Poahi’s giant frame intimidated them without saying much, which was fine with Poahi. He preferred Dale to do the talking, and Dale preferred for Poahi to be the enforcer. Today was quiet though. Aside from picking up a couple empties and fast-food wrappers, the beach was in good order. Dale walked with a serious stride and a scanning gaze, but Poahi loped along at a slower pace whilst still keeping up with Dale due to Poahi’s heaps longer legs.
From Poahi the Lackey
Dale Waters
Dale was a mop-top blond from San Diego, his skin baked to loamy brown by sunlight. He stood up on a serious face, self-importance oozing out of him. He liked all the beachgoers and volleyballers nearby watching, realising that Dale was an authority figure around here. He was one of the head dudes of the head dudes who ran this beach. Locals were coming to him with problems. Dale liked that.
From Poahi the Lackey
Pacific Sunrise
Mister Gregarian owned a near-beach apartment complex, the Pacific Sunrise. It was a one-story sprawl of faded-pastel flats filled with tattooed drugs dealers and failed screenwriters. The ocean was close enough that crashing waves were audible, from the other side of a line of sand dunes and sand-choked shopping centers that were largely abandoned in favor of the ritzy mall a few miles away.
From Poahi the Lackey
Lipsweet of Los Angeles
The nightclub Lipsweet stretched out beside the Pacific Ocean. Far from any airport or tourist attractions, it was a locals-only dive bar, with women dancing and serving and with shaggy-haired men filling out the tables that spilled onto the beach.
It was easy for Mister Gregarian to say ‘kick the dealers out’, but it was the musclebound oafs filling the gym with their armpit sweat right now who would actually have to do it. It wasn’t as simple as Mister Gregarian seemed to think. The dealers that haunted Lipsweet most nights would boil up if kicked out.From Poahi the Lackey
Carver Weatherbee
Carver Weatherbee was about fifty, and he certainly didn’t look younger than that, though he did have the body of a younger man. He was built like a boxer — which was because he, in fact, was a boxer. Or had been thirty years ago, and he’d been a boxing coach for more than a decade, helping him keep his barrel-shaped box-like stack of muscles intact.
His face was worn and weathered now, wrinkles along his cheeks and his square jaw. His hair was mostly black and streaked with gray, but his unkempt goatee was mostly gray and streaked with black. He chewed on his lower lip almost constantly.
Python (Paul Pitt)
Python was a big burly bear of a man in his early thirties, with thick dark hair and a scraggly beard. He had broad shoulders and a colorful dragon tattoo covering his chest, which was mostly bare, and a snake on his neck. He had a square jaw, and he chewed on his upper lip as the older biker introduced himself.
Gordon Hefton
Gordon is a married man.
He was Gordon, mid-forties, rustic, bearded, thick-bodied and flat-bellied but not skinny, he bulged all over, like his body didn’t realize how muscular he was. He was good with kids, which Mason had always thought was sexy. Judging from the callused fingers and the scuffed workboots in place of athletic shoes, he was some kind of blue-collar worker, but Mason didn’t know what he actually did for a living.
Mason thought Gordon was great; the way he milled about dumpily in his ill-fitting clothes (which occasionally bared a flash of his hairy belly or well-muscled back); his uncaring swagger and focus on the game, the work-built muscles — you could tell he didn’t go to a gym, at least not regularly enough to matter, but he must have worked his muscles all day every day.
Gordon loved baseball. Unlike Mason, he not only thought it was a good sport, he considered it exciting. He spent hours at the batting cages nearly every weekend; he watched every Orioles game and nearly every other major league game; he even watched the Japanese, Mexican and minor-league teams (he had favorite teams in every league). He owned all the gear and could recite all the stats for his favorite players. He knew every World Series victory, the points and the plays — he could give you the play by play of every World Series game, and he could name every player and their vital stats too.
So he did get very frustrated watching the children play, dropping the ball over and over, failing repeatedly to swing the bat and generally just making more errors than Gordon had ever thought possible. But on those rare occasions when a kid did do it well, when it all worked — when his boy had caught the ball and dived for second-base to successfully tag a runner out — it seemed like a magical sport. Gordon thought less of anyone who considered baseball boring. It was the most elegant sport in the world.
When it worked, it was like ballet, he thought, not that he’d ever say that out loud.
Somehow being a blue-collar redneck had gone from stud to ugly tubby lardass even though his appearance hadn’t changed that much — women just interpreted it differently now that he was older and still had a blue-collar career and his thick body didn’t have that almost-six-pack he’d always had. He’d gained about fifteen pounds on his high school body, but it seemed like so much more.
