Buck the Dumbass – Mansploitation

Buck Sampson steered the Jaguar into a parking spot. He done squash his hillbilly ass into the driver’s seat, his giant frame not fitting without lotta effort on his part. Mistah Gregarian slid graceful as a weasel out from the backseat b’fore’n Buck could heft hisself outta the front.
Putting on his sunglasses, Mistah Gregarian scowled at Buck. He preferred Buck to open the door fer him. Classier. But he ain’t wanna sit in the backseat and wait fer the galoot to get in gear. “C’mon, you moron, hurry up,” Mistah Gregarian said. “You could be less oafish, Buck. I have an image to maintain.”

“I’s tryin’, Mistah Gregarian,” Buck said. He lowered his bass-booming voice. Buck was a chambery hulk of a man, damn near seven feet tall and as broadly muscled as a ox. He got a thick, unkempt mullet the color of a new moon at midnight. Buck’s scruff covered up his ruddy cheeks.

Wrinkling his nose, Mistah Gregarian said, “You might have to threaten him. If I give you a signal, give him what-for.” He motioned fer Buck to go ahead — t’was classier fer the lackey to go in front. Buck was more concerned ’bout an attack from behind though. This was a rough-side homeboy neighborhood, and the locals was more dangerous than the Koreans they was here to visit.
But Mistah Gregarian wanted his bodyguard in front, so’n Buck hopped to position. He ain’t know where they was going though, to the front of the shop or the back or maybe the Kims’ apartment. Buck walked a few feet then hesitated. “Suh?”
“It’s down there!” Mistah Gregarian spat. He glanced at Buck’s hillbilly mullet. “Come on!” Mistah Gregarian weren’t a hillbilly ‘t all. He was not the kinda man who’d ever set foot in the trailer park where’n Buck lived. He’d curl his lip driving past it. He done do precisely that on numerable occasions.
But Buck was strong and tough and loyal, and he was a rely-able bouncer at the strip club Mistah Gregarian owned. Sometimes, he accompanied Mistah Gregarian on missions like this one, collecting a debt.
They went into the Korean drycleaner’s, and the chemical smell made Buck wrinkle his crooked-cartilage fist-shape nose. He breathed loud cuz he was a amateur boxer and his nose done got broke buncha times a couple years back, in the early 90s. He tried to breathe normal, cuz Mistah Gregarian scumbled on another one his looks. Buck straightened his tie, which looked too short. Buck was so big most clothes ain’t fit. How far down was a tie sposedta go anyways? Buck ain’t know, and Mistah Gregarian’d scold him silly if’n Buck axed, so’n he ain’t ax.
Inside the drycleaner’s, Buck stood up on a somber face. Mistah Gregarian do admire Buck to look good — tie, shirt buttoned up, slacks, whole nine yards. He wanted Buck looking like a goon, cuz Mistah Gregarian fancied hisself a mobster. If’n Ann Arbor had more Armenians, he prolly woulda made up a mafia.
“Mister Kim, Mister Kim, so good to see you.” Mistah Gregarian cleared his throat when the spindly Korean man came out and bowed o’er and o’er. “I haven’t seen you this month.”
“Yes, sih, yes, sih, I sowwy, I sowwy,” Mistah Kim said. He got a politely nervous way of talking.
Buck zoned out. He got confidence Mistah Kim weren’t gonna stab nobody. The two mistahs slapped noses, but they both bowed and apologized and got respect in they voices. Ain’t no blowup like when they did deals with Señor Delgado the Cuban, he a fiery sort. Mistah Kim was calm as a pickled peach.
And his missus was purdy and petite, Buck peeped her in the backa the shop.
“Buck?” Mistah Gregarian elbowed him.
“Oh. Uh-huh. Yeah,” Buck said. He ain’t know what Mistah Gregarian was signaling.
He raised his eyebrows at Buck. “Do your thing,” he whispered.
Buck cleared his throat. “You, uh… You admire me to heeit him?” Buck ain’t been paying attention, but he thought the tone of the conversation was cordial. Mistah Kim done agreed to sump’in, Buck was sho’re of that. They shook hands.
The face that Mistah Gregarian put on suggested Buck was indeed sposedta hit him, was sposedta have done hit him, was a goddamn gorilla-brain goombah fer not knowing it, was in trouble fer making it look like Mistah Gregarian be hiring retards as muscle and was gonna be on the sorry end of a long monologue after this.
But how hard to hit? Buck advanced upon Mistah Kim, who was a whimpery old Korean feller. Buck could knock his head clean off if’n he admired to.
That’d likeish reduce his debt repayments though. Who redds a drycleaner’s when it gets gommed up?
“Prease, sih, sih, sih-“
Buck smacked him, closed-fist but hard enough to knock him down. Blood spurted from Mistah Kim’s nose. He shouted and squirmed and collapsed ‘gainst the wall of the dry cleaner.
“Don’t try my patience, Mister Kim,” Mistah Gregarian said. “You- — … Buck? Did you knock him out?”
“I ain’t know how hard to heeit him!” Buck threw his hands up.
“Not that hard!”
They both peered down at Mistah Kim, who was curled up by his counter. Buck looked round to see if’n anyone done witness that. The good lady Missus Kim weren’t visible, and the drycleaning shop weren’t open yet, so’s the curtains was drawn and ain’t nobody could see in.

After just a second, Mistah Kim gasped hisself wakeful, and both Buck and Mistah Gregarian brightened up. Mistah Gregarian looked at Buck like a cockroach, and Buck threw his hands up again. Mistah Kim groaned and moaned, while Mistah Gregarian gave him another minute to recover.
Finally, Mistah Kim stammered, “I — I — I can not- I haff no mon-ee!”

“I’s sawry, Mistah Kim, fer knockin’ you out-” Buck said.
“Don’t apologize!” Mistah Gregarian hissed. He shoved Buck, who was mountainous as a unmoving wall. Mistah Gregarian shoved him harder, and Buck obliging-like stepped back as though he got shoved.
“Prease, I have no mon-ee-” Mistah Kim said.
Mistah Gregarian looked down at him. “You had better be grateful I don’t take your store. We’ll be back in one month, and we’ll have paperwork to transfer ownership. If you don’t pay in full, I’m exercising the possession clause.”
“Yes, prease, sih, prease,” Mistah Kim stammered, holding his bloody nose.
Mistah Gregarian stalked out, and Buck followed. Once they got onto the street, Buck hurried to walk afronta him and open the Jag door fer Mistah Gregarian, then scurried to the front seat and hefted hisself in with as much as grace as a barrel of a man could muster sliding into a car made fer the diminutive hunchbacks of inbred British dukes. He gotta crane his head to the side.
“You made me look like a moron in there. You threw me off my game. I had him eatin’ outta the palm of my hand,” Mistah Gregarian said. “Weren’t you paying attention?”
“Yessuh,” Buck said. He nodded ‘long as Mistah Gregarian ramped up a monologue. As always, he ain’t stick to the pertinous subject. He lectured Buck on focus, men’s fashion, finesse versus tact, class and etiquette, diction and articulation, Korean cultural appreciation, comparative advantage, the looseness of women these days, state taxes, Aztec prophecies related to the upcoming millenium shift, the environmental consequences of the drycleaning industry and considerations on how far down “yo’ boys” sag they trouser-pants.
Buck nodded and apologized and promised to do better on all those topics as he drove the Jag back to Lipsweet — that was the nightclub Mistah Gregarian owned. T’was only noon, so’s nary the girls done arrive, just the janitor Ernie mopping the floor. Teddy’d be here soon to open the bar. Buck followed Mistah Gregarian into the backoffice, cuz his monologue was ongoing and Buck knewed better’an to walk away till t’was done.
“Get outta here,” Mistah Gregarian eventually said, when he sat down at his desk. He done pause amid his monologue like he forgot what started it all. He waved Buck off. “You’re working tonight, right? Wear a clean shirt. There’s blood and pitstains on that one. And get ridda that stiffy before you come in.”
He stayed casting aspersions upon Buck and t’other bouncers, claiming they got stiffies that made ’em dumb and gropesome. He discottoned to bouncers getting freebies with his girls, and if’n he let ’em have stiffies, that’d prolly be what happened, Mistah Gregarian do say.
Buck couldn’t argue with the logic. But he ain’t have no stiffy at the moment. He knewed better’an to try and convince Mistah Gregarian that that was true. Buck got a hefty slab of foot-long meat, and as far as Mistah Gregarian was concerned, t’was always hard. He’d grab it thru them slacks and declare it a stiffy.
T’wasn’t fair. Buck’s dick was big, and Buck’s body was big, so’s he ain’t fit in his slacks, his dingdong don’t fit in his tight-whites, and Mistah Gregarian be frowning at Buck’s bulges.
Couldn’t argue ’bout the blood and pitstains though.
B’fore’n Buck headed to his pickemup in the parking lot, he went thru the bar and caught that janitor Ernie sniffing ’round the rail liquor. He was looking demure as a daisy, moving a mop round and putting on a thirsty face.
“You sneakin’ drinks, Ernie?” Buck axed.
“No, Buck!” Ernie said. He was a helter-skelter kinda homeboy, all ropy limbs and taut muscles. He was skinny as diet pie though. “I’s moppin’, whiteboy!”
“Why you moppin’? Bar ain’t even open yet, reckon,” Buck said. “You mopped it aftuh close last night, and ain’t nuttin’ happen since then.”
“Floor’s sticky. Mistuh Gregarian get hot about it-“
“Shuddup,” Buck said, clucking his tongue. “You sneakin’ drinks. Mistah Gregarian’d het up ’bout that fer sh’ore. He’d blame me. He be sayin’ I gotta watch you.” He put one hand upon the back of Ernie’s neck and pushed him towards the backdoor. “There’s a mess in the back you gotta redd up.”
“Done did the back, Buck, nuh-uh,” Ernie said. But he ain’t fight back. “I don’t steal drinks. It’s just rail liquor. I don’t steal it.”
Buck pushed Ernie into the back hallway, past the waitresses’ changing room. It smelled like women in there. The stink of they lingery perfume and fragrant ladyparts got Buck’s cock throbbing good. Ernie scampered afronta Buck, who said, “Don’chu even try and run, Ernie.”
“Shuddup, Buck!” Ernie was looking round fer a chance to run. Buck got him blocked from the backdoor though. “You is dumb as a goat, hillbilly!”
“You gotst to redd up the mess-“
“Ain’t no mess! And ‘redd up’ don’t mean nothin’-“
“Yes, the’uh is, and yes, it do!” Buck said. He opened the door to one the storage closets, where’n the stink of spillt wine was overwhelming. “Teddy dropped a bottle of wine in he’uh. You gotst to mop. It done bring in ants.” The walk-in closet was mostly tablecloths, cups and couplea cooking implements Buck’s hillbilly ass ain’t reckonize, like a French press. A line of ants crawled o’er the floor. “See? Li’l black ants.”
“All ants is li’l and black,” Ernie said.
Buck sucked upon his teeth. “No they ain’t! You gotsta mop to get ridda ’em!”
“Make Teddy mop! He spilt the wine!”
“Teddy ain’t he’uh yet, and when he get he’uh, he gonna be busy openin’ the bar,” Buck said. “Tha’ss why Mistah Gregarian hired a janitor. His name is ya hobo ass, Ernie.” He grabbed Ernie by the nape. “Now bend ovuh. I got sump’in else fer you to do fuhst.”
Ernie’s bony spine bristled ‘neath Buck’s burly fingers. “Nah, whiteboy, get off me! Quit playin’! You retard!”
Buck shoved Ernie ‘gainst the wall by the door to the hall, where’n bunchesa waitresses was coming thru to start they shift. Lipsweet was due to open in fifteen minutes. They gabbed on in tight tee shirts in the breakroom across’t the hall, and Buck could smell they hungry pussies o’er Ernie’s knappy ass.
The door was shut tight, and Buck could hear ’em giggling and going on, and he could smell they perfume. He could hear ’em hum along with a TLC song, but they couldn’t hear him.
Now, Buck did got a stiffy. T’was Caitlin’s voice that did it — she was purdy as peace, and she got a voice that was nice and soft like a ripe melon. It got Buck’s cock throbbing even b’fore’n he freed it from his overly tight slacks.
But first, he ripped down Ernie’s trouser-pants, exposing his firm asscheeks. Ernie was taut as tight rope. He got a wiry old-head body, and he ain’t eat much food — Ernie preferred a liquid diet, supplemented maybe with occasional crack. He done swan he quit the rock, but Buck got low expectations. His callused fingers spread Ernie’s cheeks.

Buck knewed that booty well. Him and Ernie done share a crowded prison cell couple years back. Ernie was a cell girlfriend — that meant he gave up his ass fer hootch and smoke money — he let men use his hole as a makeshift pussy. Ernie claimed he done quit rock when he left prison, but he still drank like a fish. He worked fer Mistah Gregarian in exchange fer minimum wage, a closet to sleep in and plentya cheap booze.

Plus skimpy girls to peep at. Lipsweet was mostly a college-student bar. The GHU campus was o’er on down the street. Aside from the loose women, Lipsweet’s only attraction was that they didn’t check idees at the bar — they only let eighteen-year-olds in, and they marked the hands of them under twenty-one, but neither Teddy nor the waitresses refrained from serving folks too young to order alcohol. The lights was dimmed such that they could plausibly claim they ain’t seed the marked hands, if’n the police ever got involved. But Mistah Gregarian got connections in the city council, and Lipsweet was ne’er cited.
“Nah, Buck, no way,” Ernie said, but he ain’t fight back much. Buck done overpower him plenty in the past. He knewed better’an to make it difficult fer hisself. He closed his eyes, gripped the wall, lifted his ass and his head but lowered his back. He sucked in his breath when he felt Buck’s meat poke at his buttcrack.
With a powerful heave, Buck rammed his erect cock into Ernie’s asshole, watching the waitresses check they makeup in the breakroom across’t the hall. Ernie grunted and clenched his teeth. Buck cut the lights off, so’s it felt just like prison again — Ernie mainly did his cell-girlfriending after lights-out.
“Shit, Buck, c’mon! Spit on it!” Ernie muttered. His neck got taut, and his back arched. His asshole clenched the best it could — not much, cuz he got run up by plentya homeboys and more’an a few whiteboys in prison.
“Fine, fine, shuddup,” Buck said. He spat upon the palm of his hand and smeared it upon his dick. Then he spread Ernie’s cheeks with that hand, his other arm wrapping ’round Ernie’s neck.
“Don’t choke me, whiteboy! I’m doin’ it-“
“Shush, I won’t choke you,” Buck said. But he did tighten his arm muscles, just enough to make Ernie work fer air. That helped him unclench his asshole, and that let Buck ram his foot-plus dickshaft into Ernie’s reluctant booty. A warm melting sensation enveloped Buck, who sighed.
A narsty, knappy ass like Ernie’s stayed gross till he got into it, then Buck forgot what turned him off. Even a shattered prison-ass like Ernie’s got enough friction and grip to get Buck’s blood flowing, and goddamn did those girlies giggling help too. Ain’t have sounds like that in Cell 19C.
Ernie squirmed like a worm, but he was swallowed up by Buck’s giant body. “Gimme a bottle. You owe me a bottle!” he hissed.
Buck scoffed, his breathing growing heavy as he rammed at Ernie’s ass. He pounded good now, back and forth, each time sending a heightened wave of pleasure thru his body. “Fine. Not a full bottle. Like a half-bottle.” He knewed Ernie was expecing like whiskey or sump’in, but Buck was gonna give him a half a five-dollar bottle of wine.
“Fine, fine, fine,” Ernie said tautly. After a few seconds silence, he said, “Them girls in the dressin’ room is fine indeed. Is that Caitlin?”
Buck nodded. “Think so. Love her booty.” He rammed his meat deep and held hisself in there. “Why you call it a dressin’ room, Ernie?”
Ernie furrowed his gravely eyebrows. “What? That’s what it is, retard. Says it right there.” He grunted and twitched, a spasm of pain hitting his rangy limbs.
Each room back here got a li’l placard beside it naming it. That “breakroom”‘s placard called it the dressing room, cuz this place usedta be a strip club. City council was full of finger-wagging bible-thumpers nowadays.
Buck grunted his acknowledgement, but he ain’t say nuttin’, both cuz he was fitting to cum and cuz anythang he might say was gonna make him seem more like a retard to Ernie. Ernie closed his eyes and clenched his teeth again anyways, as Buck got deep in his guts and shot a thick wave of jizz inside him.
The heat of his cum seeped into Ernie, who usually complained ’bout fellers cumming inside him. He do tell ’em to pull out. Only milkweed fools listened to Ernie’s demands though, so Ernie ain’t bother saying nuttin’ to Buck. He just grimaced and ignored the rolling moans emanating from Buck’s equine chest.
Anoter fat load of cum spurted into Ernie, a long flow of it that kept on coming and coming. His whole body clenched ’round Buck’s shaft, and he sucked in his breath.
“Ewhhhh-” Ernie bit his lip. Buck’s ramming at his ass got too hard to take, and Ernie clawed at the wall. His forehead banged into it, and he growled. “Dammit, Buck!”
An orgasm ran thru Buck, whose meaty hands pawed at Ernie like he was hoping to find tits somewhere. Ernie twitched, and Buck did too but fer opposite reasons. If’n Ernie’s trouser-pants weren’t ’round his ankles, he’d-a scampered off, but he’d just trip over hisself. All he could do was cringe and take it.
Cum ran down Ernie’s legs. A long stinking flow of it that turned to a flood when Buck finally let his cock plop out. Ernie danced back and forth, then wiped his ass off with a paper towel he found in the closet.
Gobs of jizz bubbled outta his ass. Ernie done race to get the paper towel into his buttcrack in time, but he couldn’t clench enough to keep it in. All Buck’s nut ran out in big bubbling wads. The cloying smell of it filled the storage closet.
“Nasty ass ign’ant hillbilly,” Ernie muttered. He wiped his ass off the best he could, while Buck simply tucked his shaft back in his Korean-blood-splattered slacks. Ernie was still muttering when Buck walked out. “You a dumb shit, Buck.”
Buck said, “Shut the fuck up, Ernie,” as he left the room. “Get this floor mopped.”

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 2

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Bouncering was dull work. Buck ain’t mind it — the pay was good, and the waitresses was purdy as petunias. But damn do it bore him to his soul. He stood there at the door checking idees. Ain’t even gotta look at ’em. Buck held a scanner that said if’n t’was valid, and it do pop up with a high-res photo-pitcher of the feller so’s Buck could check if’n t’was him.
Now and then he gots to punch a man’s lights out. T’was a perk worth remembering, cuz he enjoyed fisticuffs.
But Buck got another job too. His parole officer made him get “gainful employment”. Whatever “gainful” meant, bouncering wasn’t it. Buck axed what “gainful” was, and his parole officer just called him a stone-cold retard. Ain’t ne’er answer.

His gainful job was working as a exterminator. Buck been doing that off and on since the late 80s, working fer Mistah Taggart at Central Pest Control when he weren’t in prison or working on a oil rig. Mistah Taggart learned Buck about all them beetles, cockroaches, ants, earwigs, all them. And rats.

“Slow ya roll, Sampson, nuh-uh,” Crabgut said. “Rat traps is a weapon, can’t give you that. You think I’m a retard like you?”So’s when Buck was in prison and they gots a rat problem, Buck done come up to that guard Officer Crabgut and said he could lay out traps to get ridda them. Crabgut was a jowly, moist-shirt sumbitch, and he looked at Buck like a beetle-meat nugget.
Buck scowled. “But you hirin’ a ext’minatuh to lay out them same traps, he j’st ain’t doin’ it right.” He pointed to a trap. “If’n I wanna use one as a weapon, they’s the’uh. I could grab it. They ain’t sharp though. Ain’t no rat gonna get — he put it right out in the open, suh. T’ain’t-“
“Shut the fuck up, Sampson,” Officer Crabgut said. “Officer Hargrave is the facilities manager, he’s in charge of hirin’ an exterminatuh. A professional put them traps out.”
“I’s a professional too! He put ’em out bad! And he usin’ too much peanut buttuh. And he should use smooth, not crunchy-“
“Rats don’t care, Sampson, you’re crazy. Rats don’t got a peanut butter preference. You just playin’, you tryin’ a-get time outta ya cell,” Crabgut said. “You getting coop-up syndrome. Seen it before.”
“Nah, nah, nah, listen, listen — is he puttin’ traps in the ceiling? Tell him to put traps in the ceiling-“
“Rats don’t live in the ceiling, they don’t live up!” Officer Crabgut pointed to the ceiling, then down to the floor. “They live down. In like sewers and shit.”
Buck narrowed his eyes. “T’ain’t corre’t, suh-“
“Sampson! Quit backtalkin’,” Crabgut said. He brusquely shoved Buck back. “Git! You frustrated, Sampson?”
“Yeah! I got rats in mah cell. Gonna get that… uh… lepto… sis…” Buck was positive he was gonna remember that word right up until his tongue tripped o’er itself. “Leprosis. Or, uh… lepposposis, or…”

“Sampson… You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crabgut said. He again shoved Buck back towards the cells. Buck was tall enough that Crabgut pushed on his side, below his ribcage, steada his shoulder, cuz Buck towered o’er him. “Miguel is ya cellmate, right?”

Buck nodded as he walked back to his cell, Crabgut close behind. Buck’s feet was bare, flapping upon the cold steel floor of the state prison, which ain’t provide shoes big enough fer Buck’s feet. Usually he wore socks, but they was all dirty now, so’s his feetses was bare.
“He a punk, right? Cornhole ‘im. That’ll calm you down,” Crabgut said. He handed o’er two packets of ramen. “Here, I’ll pay fer it. Just don’t get ornery, Sampson. I don’t want trouble. I’s startin’ a three-day weekend tonight, and I don’t wanna deal wit’ ya’ dumb ass.”
“I won’t — I ain’t ornery!” Buck said with a sigh.
Officer Crabgut reached Buck’s cell, then firmly but not violently shoved him into it. “Relax, Sampson. Hargrave will take care of the rats.” He closed the cell door and walked away. Right now was open-cell time, so’s the door wasn’t locked, but Crabgut’d prolly curl his lip at Buck opening it, so’s Buck stood by the door dopeishly.
Laying there on the lower bunk was his cellmate, Miguel, who got a magazine in his hand and a curious look upon his mug. Buck held them ramen packets in one hand.
Buck lit a cigarette from the battered pack by his upper bunk and fumed. “I tol’ him that ext’minatuh don’t know what he’s doin’,” Buck said. “He looked young. He prolly foolish. Mosta ’em don’t wanna come to a prison, so’n they sent the newest rookie, reckon.” Buck took a long drag off his smoke.

Miguel shrugged. “Prison got rats, gringazo,” he said. Then he added a inscrutable hand gesture and sound effect that presumably signified the inevitableness of entropy, the creeping spread of chaos in a post-capitalist society and his stoic acceptance of dhukha, the imperfection and dissatisfaction inherent to existence in Buddhist theology. “Hszhurhppaa.”

Cigarette smoke fuming outta his ugly mug, Buck wrinkled his nose. “I cain smell the rats, Miguel, I smells ’em. Tha’ss rat piss. It’s di’rent than mouse piss.”
“Ay, don’t talk about rat piss, gringazo,” Miguel said, lifting his soccer magazine to cover his face. He was a Latin King, which you could tell by his tats. He done earnt his place among ’em by renting hisself out. Mexicans do that to each other, they do.
So far as Buck was concerned, the most important reason to join up with a gang was to avoid giving up booty. Mexican don’t see it that way. They got l’il peckers, that was why. They was short and fat and got li’l pinkies poking out they oversized bushes. T’weren’t barely a thang to get cornholed by one them.
Miguel was skinny, not fat, but he was short as a donkey was stubborn, and he got a wormy thang. He ain’t like taking it from Buck’s big-boy meat.
Casual as he could muster, Buck tacked up the sheet that covered they cell door and the window in the door. That gave a li’l privacy. When Buck was confident ain’t nobody gonna interrupt, he tossed the two packs of ramen to Miguel.
His bristly mustache jostled as Miguel shrugged, then put the ramen with t’others. Ramen was, ‘long with cigarettes, canned sardines and phone cards, the main currency in this prison. Guards usually toted ramen with ’em cuz they was cheap as hell outside and could be brung in no problem — no restrictions on guards carrying ramen.
Then Miguel got up. He was plum near two feet shorter’an Buck, so’s he dwarfed under him as he smeared a big fistful of prison-kitchen hogfat upon his asscrack. Meanwhile, Buck stroked hisself hard. He fished out a September 1992 issue of a “pickemup truck magazine”, which was fulla purdy ladies near trucks. T’was as risqué as could be easily gotten in prison.
“Go quick, esé. And silencioso,” Miguel said, wiry muscles stretching to get his hand into his buttcrack. He winced as one finger slipped into his hole, then a second. He bit his lower lip. “Shushy, gringazo.”
Buck nodded. “Make guhl sounds, Miguel, I’s picturin’ ya mamacita on mah dick,” he said with a laugh. Miguel sucked upon his teeth. Buck showed him the Latina in the magazine, who was purdy indeed. “She Mexican, and she hot-” He kept one giant hand on his cock, which firmed up in his grip.
“It say right there she Puerto Rican, gringazo,” Miguel said. He winced again as he got a third finger in his own ass, which he forced hisself to endure, as t’would feel better’an letting Buck ramrod him unprepared. His limbs strained and twitched, his tattoos rippling.
“Oh,” Buck’s chuckles turned sheepish. He ain’t see that bit, and Miguel done made his feelings on Puerto Ricans clear as sprite — Miguel soured on Puerto Ricans like tamarind soda. But Buck weren’t interested in the mamacita’s origins, and he got no notions on the nationalities of Hispanics. He liked her ass. He was eye-deep in that magazine when Miguel bent o’er.
T’weren’t a invitation fer Buck to get started. Miguel wanna put his makeshift dildo in his ass, that would loosen him up. Miguel bent o’er to get that dildo from his poke at the foot of his bunk.
But Buck was eyefucking the Puerto Rican lady — who drove a Hyundai! — and he took Miguel bending o’er to mean he was ready. One hand upon the magazine, t’other upon his dick, Buck bent his knees and jabbed his dick like a battery ram.
He missed the butthole entirely.
“Ay ay, wait,” Miguel said. He squirmed, his lubey hands pushing behind hisself upon Buck’s stallion-like body. “Wait!” Buck’s cock stabbed his asscheek hard, like Buck was trying-a poke a new butthole in it.
“Sawry, sawry, I’mma wait, whatchoo wanna do?” Buck said. He was so much taller’an Miguel that t’was hard to get his wang and Miguel’s caboose to line up. He kept thrusting though, having no idear he was ramming Miguel’s back and side hard enough to hurt.
“Ay, ay, wait, lemme get it open, gringazo,” Miguel said. “Ay ay ay.” He found the dildo and smeared hog fat on it. “Don’t press down this time, Buck. You are too big, too grande.” He whistled. Then one hand gingerly inserted the “dildo” — actually a piece of ceramic that broke off a toilet — and t’other flicked Buck’s thirteen-inch rod. T’was thicker’an Miguel’s forearm. He pointed to Buck’s chest. “Don’t press down on my back. You are heavy, and you are hairy, and you smell like a saddle.”
Buck looked at Miguel ’round the magazine. “Maxi said punks gotta-“
“I ain’t a punk!” Miguel said. He done explain this b’fore — Miguel was a Latin King. He hadta pay fer his membership by giving up the booty, but that was a valid membership. A “punk” was not a member of the gang; a punk was owned by the gang. Punks also gave up the booty, so’s the difference seemed negligent to Buck. T’was vital to Miguel.
T’was Buck’s turn to snort like a jaded pony and make a masturbatory hand gesture, which combined to signify his belief in the mutability of socially constructed roles qua the fulfillment of incumbent sociocultural systems and functions, strength and dominance as determiners per se of masculine hierarchies and the civilizational sine qua non of a peremptory conception of so-called manhood to staunch the onslaught of Leviathan.
But he ain’t argue. Once he got his pecker up Miguel’s guts, Buck’d be dictating the position fer sho’re.
“C’mon, I’s hard,” Buck said. He put the magazine down upon Miguel’s bed, hugged his hairy shoulders from behind and pulled him close. Miguel straightened his back.
“Wait, esé, I-” Miguel yelped. Buck’s meaty stomach pressed ‘gainst his head. Miguel squirmed. “It’s still-“
Buck dropped to his knees, which lined his cock up with Miguel’s ass, and he rammed his knob right at Miguel’s butthole, which was stretched wide.
T’was stretched cuz that piece of ceramic dildo was still in there. Buck forgot about that, and his knob jammed into it. Him and Miguel said ow and ay respectively.
“I’ll get it out,” Buck said, slapping Miguel’s hand away. “I’mma lose mah stiffy if’n I don’t stick it in ya soon. Ya asshole is narsty, Miguel.” His crack was lined with black hairs — the cheeks was mostly smooth, but his crack was so hairy Buck ain’t wanna look at it. Buck gingerly used two fingertips to pull the ceramic dildo out, his other hand spreading them asscheeks.
“Put lard on it!” Miguel said. He gave Buck the tub of hog fat, but Buck ain’t take it, as Buck got one hand upon his own cock and t’other spreading Miguel’s buttcheeks the best Buck could without touching any the butthair. “Lard!”
“I will, I will,” Buck said. With a quick thrust, he aimed it fer Miguel’s lubed-up hole, but the tip bounced off. He picked up the tub of hog fat. He tried again, and this time the tip went in. “Got in, keep it open, keep it-“
“Ay! Lard! Put on the lard, esé!” Miguel snapped. His asshole snapped too, and it pushed Buck’s cock right out. Buck still ain’t even open the tub of hog fat.
“I am, I am!” Buck said. His voice was so deep it echoed in the tiny cell, and Miguel hissed fer him to shush. Buck smeared hog fat upon his cock, which was losing its erection. “Sheeit, Miguel, put’cha mouth on it. Get it hard again.”
Miguel smacked his lips shut. “Nuh-uh.” He mumbled. “T’was in my culo, gringazo.”
“Just the tip was, fer like a second!” Buck said. “I swan-!”
“Shush! Keep it down!”
“Why? E’erybody knows you give it up behind,” Buck said.
“They don’t gotta know when!” Miguel said. “Get ya own self hard, Buck.”
Buck grumbled, but he picked up the magazine and stroked his dick again. T’was easier this time since he was lubed up, and his greasy hand slid up and down the shaft. Meanwhile Miguel be working at his own butthole with his fingers. He got four fingers in there.
In a flurry, Buck pulled Miguel’s fingers outta his own ass, then rammed his dick in as far as t’would go — he wanna go fast both so’s Miguel don’t come up with more delays and so’s his asshole don’t snap shut. Miguel wheezed and squirmed, and maybe four, five inches of dickmeat disappeared up there.
“Aaaah, sheeit, here we go-“
“Damn, gringazo, gimme a warnin’,” Miguel said.
“Sawry, sawry,” Buck said. Miguel stood, while Buck kneeled behind him, so’s Buck’s strong arms held him upright when Miguel’s knees got weak. He spread his legs the best he could. Miguel clenched his teeth and his ropy limbs all tensed up. “You’s tensin’ up, Miguel, relax, relax, relax-“
“Ay, ay-“
“You clenchin’, wait, wait-” Buck hugged him close, despite the bristly body hair all o’er Miguel’s chest. It turned Buck off. He couldn’t imagine tits if’n his hands was where’n tits should be and there weren’t no tits, and he used both hands to hold squirmy Miguel, so’s he couldn’t hold the magazine open. Miguel’s asshole was clenching and pushing Buck’s cock out, which Buck accepted was not deliberate — they done go thru this argument — but he got a right to force Miguel to slacken his booty. “You clenchin’, Miguel-“
“Sshhhiiiizzhzhhh!” Miguel roared. He lurched forward, banging his head ‘gainst the wall. Buck tried to support him, but Miguel couldn’t help but wriggle. His tattooed hands clawed behind hisself at Buck’s chest.
“Goddamn that feels good…” Buck murmured. Miguel done took mosta Buck’s shaft, and he was heaving on a rhythm like a woman in labor. Buck tried to keep Miguel in place as pleasure wracked his body, but Buck admired to use one hand to get that magazine back where’n he could see it.
Soon as he leggo Miguel though, Miguel squirmed hard again — that made his ass squeeze and massage Buck’s cock, which was leaking gobs of precum now. That helped further grease up Miguel’s broke-in booty.
Buck worked his dick back and forth, as Miguel’s panting slowed down. Each time he thrust, he tried to force it a l’il deeper, but he ain’t try to ram him too hard, cuz Miguel was a amigo fer real.
Finally Miguel seethed and said weakly, “Ay, wait, gimme a sec, Buck…”
“Nah, I’mma nut real quick, promise,” Buck said. He admired to look at the magazine, but e’ery time he got it in position, Miguel wriggled, and Buck gotta use both hands to steady him. He found hisself looking at Miguel’s back, which got a tattoo of a sexy grim reaper-lady, who filled Buck with contrary feelings. He preferred the magazine.
A rat moved, and Buck jerked away from Miguel. His lard-goop dick popped outta Miguel’s ass.
The rat paused like t’ain’t mean to show itself. Buck stepped to it and stomped with one bare foot, only fer the rat to dart away.
It went to the cell door, and Buck followed, his hardon dripping precum onto the cement floor. Buck hesitated cuz he ain’t wanna stomp a rat with his bare feet. He picked up one Miguel’s prison sandals.
“Ay, shit, la rata!” Miguel jumped up onto his bunk, then winced and cradled his sore asscheeks.
The rat squealed and wriggled ’round the shut cell door, which weren’t latched shut. When it creaked open enough, the rat squirmed out the cell and into the prison proper. Buck chased after it, his erect dick still dribbling onto the cold steel floor. He stopped when he realized he was naked with a hardon afronta the whole cell block.
“Eww, Buck’s bootysmashin’!” Buncha fellers started laughing. They pointed, and ain’t nobody even notice the rat, which disappeared into the walls somewhere.
“Bootysmasher!”
“Hillbillies do that, they do…”
“Ewww, his cellmate’s Miguel, right?”
Buck blushed and covered his crotch with both hands, his fat cock spilling out the sides of his grip. He hurried back to the cell
“Nah, nah, I’s gettin’ ready — I’s changin’ my clothes!” Buck called out, but ain’t nobody believe him. They done seed his dick in the shower, and don’t nobody believe a big-dick man like Buck was going thru his prison sentence without smashing booties. And e’erybody knewed Miguel do give up the booty if’n he get paid.
“You cabronazo!” Miguel hissed. “Everybody saw that-“
“I was goin’ aftuh the rat!”
Miguel still stood upon the edge of his bunk, gripping the upper bunk (Buck’s) to keep his bare feet off the cell floor. He sucked on his teeth. “Is that how you exterminate rats, Buck? You chase ’em each one?”
But Buck just grumbled, as some homeboys knocked upon the cell door and shared hushed laughs. They wasn’t allowed to open the door — T’was unlocked, but opening a cell door without permission was a stabbable offense. They kept banging on it and saying sump’in incomprehensive, maybe pretending they was guards ordering Buck to open the door. They peeked ’round the sheet curtain too.
That all only took less than a minute, and Buck’s hardon was still throbbing. He admired to defend his name, but even as he did, he lined his crotch up with Miguel’s ass — easy to do while Miguel stood upon his bunk. That lifted his hairy asscrack up enough fer Buck to get behind him and ram it right in.
“Shuddup out the’uh!” Buck called out. “I was changin’ mah clothes!”
A twitch came o’er Miguel as Buck’s cock entered his ass once more, and Miguel tensed up again. He clenched his teeth. “Shit, go slow, cabronazo.”
Buck nodded. He lowered his holler-heavy voice. “Spread ya legs, Miguel, c’mon…”
Miguel did so, wincing when Buck’s dick pushed in inch after inch. He shook like a hound-dog shitting a peach pit. His legs spread wide, and he gripped Buck’s bunk, the upper one, fer support.
“Ay ay ay…” Miguel muttered, as pain enveloped him again. Buck’s powerful arms wrapped ’round him so’s he couldn’t squirm too bad. Miguel panted, while Buck’s chest muscles writhed with the intense spasms of pleasure running thru his body.
The sound of the homeboys banging upon the cell door faded. Buck pounded now, relentless, and soon Miguel wasn’t really supporting hisself ‘t all — Buck hugged him and lifted him off the bunk, so’n Miguel was swallowed up by Buck’s barrel chest. Then Miguel could squirm all he wanted, he got no leverage, and Buck could use his ass more like a fleshlight than a pussy.
That hurt, but it sent Buck right o’er the edge.
A thick wave of nut filled Miguel’s ass. Buck let out a long, chamberous moan, and he felt his tensions draining away like melted butter. Crabgut was right, he did needta blow a nut.
“Ay…”
Grimacing his teeth, Miguel scrunched his eyes shut. The pressure in his ass was so intense it felt like he was being split in two, like Buck done broke sump’in in his backside. But Miguel knewed it always felt like this — Buck got big meat. Wave after wave of creamy cum flowed into Miguel, a bigger load than he thought possible. Mexicans ain’t shoot that much he thought, or maybe they was just more apt to pull out and shoot on his back, while Buck preferred to get e’ery drop all the way up in Miguel’s guts.
Buck at last pulled out and sighed, and he put Miguel down. He blanched at sight of buncha black fellers outside the cell, peering in ’round the edge of the sheet curtain blocking the window on the door. They was laughing at Buck wiping his dingdong clean. Buck moved the sheet they got set up so’s it blocked the window again — he ne’er done fix it correct-like after coming back in here. Buck felt like an idiot. Them homeboys was gonna be calling him a booty bandit fer months.
As though they ain’t done it too. Homeboys was all booty bandits, in Buck’s experience. They all either be ramrodding or getting it up the dookie by a bigger one. But they think it’s funny when a whiteboy do it.
“Goddamn that hurt, esé,” Miguel said, caressing his sore ass. A wave of cum poured down his inner thighs as he got off his bunk and stretched his legs. “And you’s estúpido fer goin’ out there. Everybody saw it! Fuckin’ dumbass cabron.”

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 3

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck laid a smackdown upon this twerpy white thang with a name too big fer his trouser-pants, which he sagged like a yo’ boy. He was MC Nutty or some dumbass college-boy wannabe Vanilla Ice shit like that, and he got loud all night, hooting at the waitresses. Buck hadta go tell him classy-like to keep his voice down. The man looked subduified by Buck’s bigness and firm words, but after couple more drinks, he got gropey as a octopus upon a waitress. Buck don’t like a man who treat a woman unproper, so’n he planked the fuzz outta him. He drug him sputtering, bloody-nosed and bruising up, into the back alley and deposited him beside the dumpster.
And then he went back to his eternal post at the door. Nuttin’ much happened after that. Nary the customers or waitresses axed about the man, MC Nutbag. In the alley, the man musta got up, cuz he was gone when Buck went to piss on him later. He been looking forward to that, so’s now he got nuttin’ to do the resta the night, unless’n one the remaindering broh boys got fresh. They simmered on low though, all night long, and Buck was dreary to droop by the time Teddy called last call.
Damn but bouncering was a boring-ass job lotta the time. T’was more boring than prison somehow. ‘Least in prison, a feller knows he gonna have nuttin’ to do fer the foreseeable. Ain’t nuttin’ gonna change that. Outsidea prison, here at Lipsweet, sump’in better was always right ’round the corner, a corner Buck couldn’t go round cuz he was stuck at the dingdarn door.
T’was enough to remind Buck of school. School gave him that same feeling, that he be jumping thru pointless hoops steada living a life with meaning.
Buck always did struggle in school, and he only barely graduated. The only parta school life that felt right was the wrestling team. His coaches ensured he ain’t waste time upon schoolwork, which was good, cuz Buck woulda dropped out if’n he gotta do his work. They even put him in a college-prep class, and then he was recruited by GHU fer they wrestling team. That was what brung him to Ann Arbor in the first place back in the 80s.
‘Course, even when he was a college student, he ain’t do nary his coursework. Officially, Buck done earn mosta his degree in physical education. Ne’er got a diploma though.
In Buck’s freshman year, he got a tutor name Donovan, this sniveling spectacled knowitall who be eye-gauging Buck up a retard. At first, Buck ain’t care ’bout them looks. He got bigger things on his mind — tourneyments, coeds, lunch.
The longer his freshman year went on, the more Donovan discomfitted Buck. They was both freshmen, though Buck was older cuz he got held back loads in school. Donovan scowled at that when he found out, like he thought Buck shouldn’t-a been allowed to come to GHU cuzza his school record. He always talked like he was struggling not to sneer in Buck’s direction.
Donovan was a stick of a nerd in Buck’s gaze though, weak as a thimble in the stormy sea. He was short and beaky-nosed and soft-spoke, and he was kinda feminine in a weird way. It made Buck wanna give him a wedgie.
But he resisted the urge.
He got back to the team house after practice one afternoon, and Donovan was there upon the front porch waiting fer him. He got a superior arch to his brow.
“I have your stat homework.”
“Mah what?”
“Stat homework,” Donovan said with a harsh snap.

Buck got no idear what that meant — he first heered I have ya’s at homework, which ain’t make sense, and he ain’t connect stat to his statistics class, which he ne’er done attend. He was only vaguely aware that statistics had to do with like percents and shit. Finally, after a awkward pause, Buck said, “Yeah,” as though that was obvious. He took the homework from Donovan. Why’d he make that so difficult? Both Buck and Donovan thought that as they separated. Donovan scurried back to his dorm.

Meanwhile, Buck went inside, where’n his wrestling-team buddies was sitting round drinking beer and talking ’bout girls. T’was a endlessly fruitful topic round here. Buck got into it with ’em, and they discussed the merits of tits versus legs versus ass all evening long, till some real ladies showed up from Omega house to parade ’round they tits, legs and asses.
In a’ry case, once him and t’other wrestlers filled they moist womanhoods up, Buck and t’other wrestlers got sleepy. The Omega girls went back to they house so’s they wouldn’t get in trouble, and Buck was slumbering fulla snores in his room. When Donovan came o’er with a page of stat homework he done forget to include b’fore, Buck remained sound asleep in his room.
“Buck. Hey, Buck, wake up,” Donovan said. He touched Buck’s broad chest, only slightly hairy then cuz he was a young man still. His pecs were firm and round, like a man in a movie — Donovan went to a small private school fulla skinny nerds with pocket protectors and thick-rimmed glasses; Donovan was virtually a jock there. Even the gym teacher had a degree in kinesiology. Donovan ain’t ne’er seen a man with real pecs b’fore.
Them pics rippled ‘neath Donovan’s fingers. He sucked in his breath. His hands explored Buck’s bare chest, dappled with the remains of fucksweat and Omega-babe juices.
Buck’s eyes blinked open, and he stirred. He was bleary, his breath reeking of skunk beer. He belched in Donovan’s face. Though Buck done awake, Donovan was still touching his chest. Them heavyweight muscles all flexed at once, but Donovan ain’t stop. He full-on groped Buck’s muscles like Coach Walker when he gave a massage (he gave very rough massages with painfully callused fingers).
“I forgot to give you one of the pages of your stat homework,” Donovan said.
Buck shrugged. “‘Kay.” He closed his eyes again. T’weren’t clear he was aware of what Donovan said or even who was speaking to him right now. His muscles kept rippling though, which entranced Donovan.
A feminine giggle escaped from Donovan’s lips. God damn Buck was an idiot, he thought. Donovan’s father let him get drunk once a few months ago, so’s he could do it once b’fore coming to college. He said only idiots get pass-out drunk. Buck and his jock buddies did it e’ery weekend and some weekdays.
And Buck was huge! Imagine how much he hadta drink to get that drunk.
When even Donovan’s giggles didn’t wake Buck up, he slowly, gently pulled Buck’s underwear down. Since he lay on his back upon his bed, Donovan couldn’t get the underwear all the way down — Buck was much too heavy. He did lower his tight-whites enough to bare his massive cock, which made Donovan’s eyes bug out.
That thang was more’an a foot long!
That was why he admired to tutor Buck in the first place, after all, cuz he heered rumors that he had a giant dick. The rumors came from both women Donovan overheard when him and his nerdy friends peeped on the women’s locker room as well as from one friend who showered and changed with Buck in the men’s locker room. He ain’t believed it.
But here it was, in his grip, so hefty t’was actually heavy. It throbbed and pulsated, veiny and knobby. Donovan’s dick was smooth as porcelain in comparison. Was cocks sposeda to be vein-shafted knobbly clubs like Buck’s? Donovan ain’t know.
Buck’s shaft flopped left and right in Donovan’s hand, while he sucked in his breath and checked if’n Buck would awake. He ain’t. He slumbered like a log, and his dick remained limp as could be.

Donovan ain’t mind that. He liked the heft of it. It felt right in his hands. T’was as thick as Donovan’s wrist. He bent o’er and put the tip of it in his mouth, and Buck still ain’t respond.

It tasted salty with old sweat — and from the Omega cheerleader who came by so’s Buck could fuck her, but Donovan ain’t know about her and ne’er tasted no cheerleader pussyjuice, so’s he got no frame of reference — and it made Donovan’s whole body tingle. He ain’t ne’er taste nuttin’ like this. T’was warm and soft at first, but as Donovan ran his tongue up and down the shaft, it slowly firmed up in his grasp.
A snort came outta Buck’s fat nose, but he ain’t wake up. His cock twitched in Donovan’s mouth. It stayed soft though.
T’ain’t stay soft fer long. Donovan ain’t know Buck done blow three loads in Omega-babe snatch couple hours back, but he was young enough then that his balls was already full-up again. His cock was a-mite slow to rouse. Once Donovan started working his hand up and down though, tongue exploring the piss-slit and slathering spit upon the tip, it firmed up bit by bit.
He kept stroking Buck’s dick until t’was hard. T’was even thicker now, and Buck stirred slightly but he ain’t wake up. Donovan slurped upon the tip until his spit ran down the shaft into Buck’s crotch hair.
Taking his own clothes off, Donovan felt a twinge of embarrassment at his skinny frame and small dick — neither of which was notable — Donovan weren’t ‘specially skinny and his cock was normal-sized, but he looked tiny next to Buck. Donovan was glad ain’t nobody wakeful to see though. His own dick done got hard, and it pulsated in his grip. He straddled Buck and rubbed his manhood upon Buck’s much bigger shaft. Donovan frotted both cocks together until his own was leaking precum. Buck’s dick spat much more prejizz, and his was extra strong-tasting, salty and sweaty.
Cum sprayed o’er Buck’s chest. Since Buck was asleep, Donovan was surprised by it, Buck’s stony face giving no cues t’was coming. A long and continuous flow roped o’er and o’er onto his pecs, and then Donovan rammed his mouth back upon Buck’s knob.
A sleepy moan came outta Buck’s throat, same time as another wad of jizz spurted out. Donovan caught mosta it in his mouth.
Great gobs of jizz exploded into his Donovan’s throat. He couldn’t swallow it, so’n it instantly overflowed and spilled onto Buck’s legs. Some got upon his thick thighs and ran onto the bedsheets below.
Just when Donovan thought Buck was done and pulled off, a jerk hit Buck’s body, and his hands fluttered, then falled limp again, and a final cumwad sprayed Donovan in his open, gasping mouth. It spilled o’er his face and onto the mattress below.
All that cum dripped off Donovan’s face. T’was warm and gooey, and he savored the feel of it drying there, as his sopping-wet hands rubbed Buck’s limpening meat. T’was so long it took both his hands, and if’n he’d had a third, he coulda used that too.
When Buck’s glistening cock was soft again, Donovan finally pulled off it. He frotted his dick upon Buck’s limpness. T’was hot and sopping wet. Cum dripped down Buck’s pecs and streaked his six-pack abs.
He was sound asleep now. “Sleepy-deeping” — Donovan done heered Buck say that last month. T’was one of his redneckisms, which lotta men thought was funny, maybe women too. Donovan discottoned to rednecks though.
“Good night, Buck,” Donovan said softly. His hands smeared cum all o’er Buck’s chest and even onto his face. Buck wrinkled his crooked nose, but he ain’t respond. Jizz clung milkily upon his cheeks and his square jaw.
Donovan stood up and laughed under his breath. Buck was like a rock now, passed out. He done seem deeply asleep couple minutes ago, but now, Donovan could tell he was out fer the night. That orgasm put him under.
So’n Donovan could do whatever he admired to Buck’s wrestler muscles. He held back another giggle, more outta habit than stealth — if’n Buck were wakeful, he’d prolly tease Donovan fer giggling like a girl. But nobody was around, so’s Donovan could giggle all he wanted as he massaged Buck’s massive biceps and broad shoulders.
His dick poked Buck in his stomach, which was just slightly too meaty to be a perfect six-pack — when he cut weight fer wrestling, he sometimes had a six-pack, but Buck was naturally beefy. Donovan’s dick jabbed Buck in the sternum, and Donovan humped his pecs, holding onto Buck’s massive head fer support.
Then he worked his way up Buck’s thick neck to his chin and face. Donovan’s cock dabbed precum onto Buck’s nose and upper lip. When Buck still slept on, Donovan rammed his cock into Buck’s open, ready-to-snore mouth. Buck choked, and Donovan panicked. He pulled his cock out.
But Buck stayed sleeping.
After a couple seconds, Donovan again let his throbbing-hard cock touch Buck’s chin and lower lip. No response. The scruff of Buck’s unshaven cheeks scratched at Donovan’s shaft. Like most college freshmen, Donovan didn’t need-a shave e’ery day and didn’t get scruff like that.
‘Course, Buck was old fer a freshman.
Donovan pushed his dick back in Buck’s waiting mouth, and Buck remained still as a eggplant. His tongue lay flat and moist, waiting fer Donovan to hump his gooey shaft ‘long the top of it. His cock slid into Buck’s throat. Donovan could easily push the whole shaft down there, as Buck was so big his mouth was huge. Donovan gasped.
Precum flowed into Buck’s mouth, and Donovan intended to pull out to prolong this, but b’fore’n he could think, an orgasm overcame him. A cumwad spurted into Buck’s mouth, then his second jizz coated Buck’s square jaw and face. A moist choke came outta Buck’s unconscious body, which spat Donovan’s dick out mid-orgasm.
“Oh god…” Donovan wondered if’n this was what sex was like. It felt so good, like milk chocolate flowed thru his veins. He had to hold onto Buck’s solid shoulders fer support. He wanna get his cock back into Buck’s mouth, but it felt so incredible Donovan couldn’t coordinate his movements well enough. He rammed Buck in his stony face and spurted wad after wad o’er goo o’er his crooked nose and square cheeks. He got the tip in Buck’s hot mouth again, only fer Buck’s throat to instinctively choke it back out. Donovan sucked in his breath and gritted his teeth as his final jizz coated Buck’s forehead and even reached the bottom of his mullet behind his nape.
Donovan kept stroking his limp dick until e’ery last drop had dribbled onto Buck’s chin or into the peach fuzz upon his chest. He was hairy fer a college student. Donovan rubbed his dick in Buck’s chest hair too. He’d ne’er felt anythang like that — Buck wasn’t as hairy as he was as an old man, but fer a college freshman, he might as well have been sasquatch.
When Donovan was soft, he got paranoid about being caught. He pulled up his pants in a hurry, suddenly certain Buck was gonna wake up soon. Donovan scurried out into the night.
And the best part was, Donovan thought, that Buck was too dumb to realize why he was so sticky in the morning.

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 4

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck left Lucy’s house just after dawn, that way nary the neighbors would see. Lucy was his long-time girlfriend. Unfortunately, she been shacked up with another man fer awhile. She was still seeing Buck on the side, so’s he gotta sneak out pre-dawn. He ain’t have enough time fer a morning quickie, which meant he gotta run the whole way with a hardon.
Another reason to leave early was that Buck gotta go in to work — not bouncering at Lipsweet, he also got that part-time job as a exterminator with Central Pest Control. Buck discottoned to the early-morning work, but he gotta have that “gainful” job to keep his parole officer calm.

He undressed in the locker room, last one there, so’s he gotta race to get his uniform on. He hoped Mistah Taggart seed that he weren’t late to arrive, cuz he was late by the time he got his job clipboard from the box by the office. Mistah Taggart was in there scowling.

“I was he’uh on time, suh,” Buck said. Technically, he walked in the door one minute late, and he was leaving the workshop late. He picked up the clipboard fer his pickemup. The clipboard got a long list of addresses, but more importantly it came with a printed-out map of the county. The addresses was labeled upon it. Buck knewed this county like a hound-dog knows its dish-bowl, so’s he could find the locations easy as ice cream.
“Fine, go,” Mistah Taggart said like he ain’t entirely believe Buck. But he shrugged him off anyways.
Buck stopped and showed Mistah Taggart the clipboard. “This one got two addresses, suh. Which one do I go to?”
Mistah Taggart raised his eyebrows. “Go to the first address to get the key. Second address is where you gonna spray.” He paused. “That’s a broke-down building, Sampson. Be careful. Kick the hobos out before you spray. That’s why I gave you that one, you’s a big feller, you can handle a rough situation. That building was abandoned two years ago, and some squatters moved in. If’n they give you too much trouble, call the police.”
“Yes, suh,” Buck said.
Buck nodded as he walked out. The clipboard listed the pesticide to use. Buck don’t know them sciencey words, but he could match ’em up with the labels, and he got a good memory fer the details of how to use each one.
Still waking off his nods, Buck headed to the nearby gas station fer a breakfast sandwich, a cuppa coffee and a full tank. Then he went out to his first couple stops, which all went swift as a breeze. He set down some rat traps and bait stations, put a one-way flap in a lady’s bat-filled attic and picked up a raccoon in a cage.
After letting the raccoon go free in a state park, he went to get the key to the abandoned building, and he drove to it. The building looked fine from a distance, but when he got close, he seed all the shattered windows and the untended grass.
He went in the old apartment building — ain’t need the key, it turned out, as the front door was ripped off its hinges. He smacked a stick upon a rustbucket icebox near the door, which made a loud ringing sound.
“Hey! All y’all! Anybody in this buildin’ best get out!” Buck shouted. His deep-chested baritone echoed. “I’mma fill it wit’ poison! Central Pest Control he’uh, ’bout to kill lit’ally e’erythang he’uh’! You gotto skedaddle!”
A shambly black man glanced at him, then hobble-footed out the door. He was followed by two more fellers, and then a woman with blue hair and safety-pin piercings lurched out. She was smacking two fingers upon her elbow like she was fitting to shoot up. Buck ain’t say nuttin’ to nary the squatters, as they was leaving peaceable-like, and he ain’t wanna interrupt that.

When he was satisfied there weren’t no hobos left on the first floor, he went up the creaky step-staircase on the lookout fer more. He kept repeating hisself and making buncha noise. He imitated a siren’s squeal too, hoping that might rouse some lazy hobos. “Gonna fill this place wit’ poison gas, y’all! Best skedaddle!”
Nobody on the second floor. Buck went up to the top floor, the third, and looked round there. Seemed quiet, but he kept calling out regardless-like.

Gonna cost a purdy penny to fix this place up, he thought. It musta been got abandoned to the squatters a long time ago. The grime was caked in. Plumbing and wiring gonna hafta be redone entirely. Roof too, likeishly.
“Hey!” Buck snapped when he seed some mohawky whiteboy, who be lingering like a rash. “You gotsta get out.” The whiteboy got a blanket and some clothes spread out in the least rubble-filled room upon the third floor. A boombox and a heroin kit was the only furniture. Sunlight streamed in from the shattered windows upon one wall, illuminating the cloud of dust and drug smoke that filled the room.
The mohawky whiteboy looked at Buck like one them two was a idiot, but he weren’t sho’re which. “I’m stayin’ here, I claimed this place in the name of freedom. You can’t institute your system of oppression here, you fascist!”
“Ain’t no fashist, you fashist,” Buck said. He got no inkling what a fascist was. “I’mma fill this place wit’ poison, mothahfuckah. Fashist! You fash e’erybody-“
“No! You can’t!”
“It’s fulla cockroaches, hoss. Rats too, fer sho’re. It’s bad, they’s fixin’ it up-“
“No!” The mohawky thang tottered left and right. He was on sump’in fer sho’re, or maybe he was off it at the moment and jonesing fer more. Buck seed his heroin kit but ain’t see no heroin. The mohawk on a needle frowned and eyebrowed hard upon Buck. “Nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong with cockroaches, you’re a — they’re my friend. You’re a fascist! You’re a fascist, man. You’re imposing your… whatever, and… All life is sacred anyway.”
“A’ight, dawg, you gots to go,” Buck said. He took him by the arm, which was muscled but shrunk, with track marks abundant.
“Nah, nah, no, you gonna get outta here, gotta go, gotta go, I’ll kick ya hillbilly fascist ass redneck motherfucker-“
“Hey! Don’t test me! You is vexin’ mah ire now,” Buck said and wagged his finger at the mohawky whiteboy, who jerked away from him. He feinted hard at Buck, but Buck do stoneface.
The two squared up, Buck big and burly, the squatter dim-eyed, ripple-muscled and padding-less. Anarchy symbols and a portrait of Che Guevara covered his muscle-limbed body. His name was Jenner, and he snarled at Buck like he wanna fight, like he ain’t notice Buck was so much bigger’an him.
“Come at me then, fascist!” Jenner patted his own chest like a skinny Hulk Hogan — like Hulk Hogan had a baby with a rake. Then he punched Buck right in the belly, and Buck shrugged it off like a meow. He was too addled to punch effectively, and he got wiry arms, strong but withered. Buck shoved him away.
“Quit it, I ain’t playin’, hoss, you best step off,” Buck said.
“Shuddup, I’ll fuck you up, you think you’re hot shit!” the mohawked punk said. “C’mon! You work fer the police, huh? You a piggie?”
“No! I’s a ext’minatuh, son, slow ya toe! C’mon, I’s j’st killin’ the cockroaches. You cain take ya shit wit’cha,” he said. “You cain even come back in four hours, I don’t care. If’n you come back early, you gonna die.”
But the mohawky Jenner punched him again, his fist colliding with the meat of Buck’s belly. Flinchless, Buck gritted his teeth. He shoved the mohawked stack of string down like a disrespectful tombstone.
“Lay off!”

“Fascist!” Jenner bounced back onto his feet, and Buck shoved him to the wall. His pants dropped to his ankles, baring a ratty pair of boxers. Buck ain’t mean to do that, but it got the mohawk stumbling. He ain’t seem to grasp that his pants was ’round his ankles, and he steady tripped on ’em.

Buck grabbed Jenner by the mohawk and pulled his boxers down. “See what you makin’ me do?” Buck wrapped one arm ’round him to squeeze his neck. Buck’s free hand undid the fly of his workpants and fished out his cock, which he rubbed limply upon the mohawked man’s buttcheeks.
Still unaware, Jenner stumbled in place and shouted. He stopped only when Buck rammed his cock in the man’s ass, the knob slipping in, followed by just an inch or so of shaft b’fore’n he hit resistance.
But Buck weren’t in the mood to honor resistance. He squeezed the man’s neck till his body tensed, then he leggo and the mohawked man took a deep breath. The relaxation opened his butthole too, and Buck’s cock rammed in deep as a ditch.
“Oh god!”
“Sssshush, I done gave you a chance, motherfucker,” Buck said. He shuddered as pleasure coursed thru him. “Now this is happenin’.”
He spat upon his hand and smeared that on his shaft to give a li’l lube. But not much, cuz Buck ain’t intend this to go easy. His cock cornholed in and out till the mohawked man’s knees went weak, l’il deeper each time, and Buck followed him to the ground.
His asshole was well-worked and not intact in the least. Buck weren’t surprised. He prolly give it up fer heroin and whatever, you ne’er can tell with the ones with mohawks and anarchy shit. His ropy asscheeks squeezed ’round Buck’s manhood and sent more shivers of sensations thru Buck’s nerves.
“Ow, fu-uuuuuck…!” Jenner panted and wriggled. Buck slammed down on him with all his might, and Jenner’s bony ass got no resistance left. Buck moaned into his ear.
“You gonna get the fuck out?” Buck murmured. Jenner opened his mouth to say sump’in, but Buck bit his earlobe, and Jenner wriggled again. Buck grunted as his orgasm came nigh. Jenner shuddered. Buck said again, “You gonna leave, fashist?”
“Yeah!” Jenner said thru gritted teeth.
Buck’s heavy chest pinned Jenner to the ground, so’s he could scream into the ratty floor as much as he want, he ain’t make much noise. The hairy meat of Buck’s chest pressed ‘gainst Jenner’s bony back. Buck pistoned his hips, forcing the final couple inches into his guts as a climax wracked him. He spat upon the side of the man’s face.
A vast wave of cum seeped into Jenner, who closed his eyes and cringed. Buck moaned again and again, as he jerked his hips, pumping a fat flow of goo into Jenner’s guts.
Buck was right: Jenner done went thru this b’fore. Don’t make it no easier though. He heaved fer breath as his ass struggled to accommodate Buck’s cockshaft and his river of jizz. Jenner felt it flowing thru his body and puddling up under him.
His grunts condensed hotly upon Jenner’s cheek. One final cumwad spurted into him. Buck growled, and his muscles twitched ‘gainst Jenner’s back. Jenner twitched too.
When he done drain his dong, Buck slowly lifted his still-clothed body off the mohawked man’s bareness. Buck raised up till his cock plopped out. Jenner lay like he wanna crawl away, but when Buck got off him, Jenner plopped and sprawled out his lanky limbs in the puddle of Buck’s jizz. He lay there like a sleepy earwig.
“You best run, hoss,” Buck said. “Or I’mma redd up mah dick wit’cha tongue.”
“I’m outta here, you better not spray anything before I leave! You’re a fuckin’ fascist asshole piece of shit moron!” Jenner spat into the ground as he struggled to his feet. “You talk like a retard!”

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 5

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck got outta the Jag, which he done park in a lawny neighborhood with bunchesa young homeboys riding round on bicycles. He snorted and rubbed his nose, then opened the door fer Mistah Gregarian in the backseat. Mistah Gregarian took it that Buck delayed opening the door cuz he forgot, whereas in fact Buck remembered, he admired to keep eye upon them homeboys. Security was his job, after all.
But Mistah Gregarian sucked on his teeth when he got outta the Jag, and he said, “Can’t you remember anything, you ape?”
All Buck said was, “Sawry, suh.” Seemed easier to go ‘long with it. If’n Buck said anythang about homeboys or tried to pronounce s’cuh’ty, Mistah Gregarian’d have words to say.

He followed Mistah Gregarian o’er on up to the run-down house. Buck hadta step ’round a bucket of children’s toys and generic-brand cabbage-patch dolls that musta sat there fer a coon’s age, judging from the moss growing upon ’em. The paint on the house was fading.

The man hisself opened the door — James Macklevan was his name. He was sump’in called a “pullman-ologist”. It seemed to be a doctor, but Macklevan ain’t got no money. So’s maybe he was like a charity doctor or some shit, or maybe Macklevan weren’t very good at it.
“Mr. Gregarian! I was going to call you,” Macklevan said.
“Hmm-hmm.” Mistah Gregarian waited, then motioned fer Buck to go in as though Buck shoulda knewed that. Buck walked past him and barreled into the house.
“Please, wait-“
But Buck knocked him out with a fist to the side of the head-noggin. Macklevan crumpled to the ground like a snotty tissue.
“Goddamnit, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a sigh. He checked Macklevan. “He’s unconscious!”
“Oh. Sawry, suh,” Buck said. “I thought I was sposedta heeit ‘im.”
“You were!” Mistah Gregarian said.
“Sawry.” Buck looked down at his feet. “H’ain’t mean to heeit him that hard.” Mistah Gregarian scowled. T’was unfair — Mistah Gregarian thought Buck oughta know what he wanted without saying so. That’s how it worked in the movies. The boss clucks his tongue or sump’in, and his lackeys know whether that means ‘kill this dude’ or ‘close the door’ or ‘punch him hard enough to hurt but not knock him out’ or whatever.
Outside the movies though, Buck got no way of knowing what Mistah Gregarian wanted unless’n Mistah Gregarian say so. T’ain’t classy to give direct orders.
How does the mafia do it? Buck don’t know — as a general rule, Buck don’t know thangs — and Mistah Gregarian was too small-potatoes to find out.
With a light slap upon his face, Macklevan roused. He stumbled to his feet. He was only unconscious fer a minute. Not really a big deal, Buck thought, not that Mistah Gregarian would treat it that way.
“You owe me money, Dr. Macklevan,” Mistah Gregarian said. He had to repeat it a couple times. Finally Macklevan nodded his understanding.
“I… I do,” Macklevan said. “I owe you money. I’ll pay, I really will. I’ve got a divorce lawyer, you see. It’s expensive. I-“
“So you’re paying your lawyer and not me? Is he more important than me?”
“Well, well, Mr. Gregarian, it’s complicated. If he can get my payments down, I’ll have more money to pay you,” Macklevan said. “Almost all my income goes to my wife right now.”
“You got anything you can sell?” Mistah Gregarian said. He motioned fer Buck to do sump’in — Buck woulda assumpted that meant ‘punch him again’, but he done got that wrong once, and he ain’t wanna do it again. Mistah Gregarian turned to him and scowled. “Go look for stuff to sell.”

“Yessuh,” Buck said. He went off to the kitchen first. Mistah Gregarian musta forgot Buck done scour this house fer pawnable items couple months back. Buck weren’t gonna point that out though, or Mistah Gregarian’d snap at him.
He ain’t find nuttin’. Last time they was here, he even took the icebox. Macklevan done found or maybe bought a mini-fridge, but Buck figgered t’weren’t worth much. He ate a cooked sausage outta it though, real quick so’s Mistah Gregarian wouldn’t see. He ain’t like Buck eating during missions, or even ‘tween missions.

When he came back to the front hall, Mistah Gregarian scowled in Buck’s direction. “Where have you been?”
“Lookin’ fer shit to sell,” Buck said. “He got nuttin’ in the kitchen.”
Mistah Gregarian shook his head like he was ashamed. He shoved Macklevan ‘gainst the wall. “Do it, Buck.”
Again, Buck hesitated. He ain’t know what it was. He got the notion Mistah Gregarian been threatening the doctor, but Buck ain’t know what the threat was. Mistah Gregarian done aim Macklevan at the wall, so’s t’ain’t seem like hitting him was the goal. Buck raised his eyebrows at Mistah Gregarian.
“Ramrod him, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a vituperative slit to his eyelids.
That made Buck frown. He admired not to get a reputation as a booty bandit. As a man who done went to prison, which e’erybody knewed, and a man who done bandit buncha booties behind bars, which lotta fellers knewed, Buck was sensitive to a reputation. He done told Mistah Gregarian b’fore not to plan on him cornholing men to get ’em to pay back they debt.
Fer one thang, it don’t work. Don’t nobody keep money up they butthole.
At least there wasn’t no witnesses this time, and Buck done got on Mistah Gregarian’s bad side, so’n he ain’t complain. But he side-eyed Mistah Gregarian as he grabbed Macklevan by the pants, and the doctor’s cloudy eyes ain’t realize what was happening. Macklevan squirmed and squealed. He got no clear words to say though, he just looked at Buck like a lost puppy.
He pulled Macklevan’s sweatpants down and bared his ass. He squeezed Macklevan’s cheeks. They was plump, strong fer a middle-aged doctor — maybe pullman-ologists was like… the gym teachers of medical school, Buck thought. Or maybe he been living rough since he was on the feud with wifey.
In a’ry case, Buck lowered his own workpants just enough to get his dick out, and he thwacked it upon Macklevan’s buttcheeks. They rippled, and Buck chuckled. He stroked hisself hard. Macklevan weren’t even trying-a run away.
Do doctors know ’bout cornholing? Prison doctors do. But prisons don’t got pullmanologists. Macklevan grunted and stayed stoic like he thought the punishment was getting thwacked on the buttcheek by a hillbilly dingdong. That was just Buck getting hard. So maybe doctors don’t know about cornholing, or at least pullmanologists don’t.
Regardless-like, Buck rammed his hardon into Macklevan’s butthole. Macklevan cramped and cried out, cringing and whinging. “Hey, hey…! Hey, shit, what’re you doin’?!”
“Shuddup,” Buck murmured. He rammed a li’l harder. His cock slipped into Macklevan’s ass, and Macklevan’s eyes bugged out.
He was intact, so’n Buck hit resistance right away. Mistah Gregarian done left the room — he don’t wanna watch — and he ain’t see Buck struggling to get his dick in b’fore’n he lost his hardon. Macklevan’s booty was too tight, and Buck got no lube but his own spit, plus he was too tall, so’s he gotta bend his knees.
And Macklevan be making all these pained noises and panting and wordless begging, all of which Mistah Gregarian could prolly hear. Buck kinda wanna stop, as he weren’t ‘specially horny. Macklevan even done took all the photo-pitchers off the wall, so’s Buck got no females to look at it. The rectangles of faded paint showed where’n they usedta be.
“Ow, shit, c’mon, c’mon, Buck, c’mon…” Macklevan panted. Despite not wanting to go thru with it, Buck weren’t gonna stop. He got a hardon. A man gotta blow a nut, or the stuffed-up juices in his balls gonna get him in trouble.
And with a l’il spit, Buck got his shaft working back and forth in Macklevan’s grippy butthole.
T’ain’t feel good. It felt fine, Buck could get thru it, but this ain’t like t’was in prison. Ramrodding don’t feel the same out in the real world. He wouldn’t ne’er-a did it if’n Mistah Gregarian ain’t tell him he had to. Coulda drug it out fer hours too — Buck gotta close his eyes and concentrate to blow a nut. He was going back and forth fer a couple minutes b’fore’n he realized he gotta work at finishing up. By then, Macklevan was wincing, weak-kneed, panting and clawing at the wall of his own unkempt house.
Buck closed his eyes and remembered the last time he was with a beautiful woman, one the waitresses who spread her legs fer him couple nights ago. That got his manhood throbbing, and it got him pumping his hips powerful enough to make Macklevan cry out again and again. Buck’s neck and face ruddened, and his cheeks grew taut. The vein upon his forehead throbbed.
It took all his concentration to send him o’er the edge. Then, like a dam was burst, he let out a long moan and thrust his meat deep into Macklevan’s guts.
“Ow, fuuuuuuuuuuck-“
“Goddamn, doc…” Buck’s voice broke and his knees buckled, but he stayed upright and slamming. A massive flow of jizz spurted outta his cock and spread thru Macklevan’s guts. A long wave of it kept on coming. The fact that Buck hadta work at it meant he shot a big load, big even fer Buck, who’s muscles all tensed up like it took e’ery ounce of strength he got to shoot his jizz. “Daaaamn…”

He filled his ass with cum, a great creamy wave that flowed thru Macklevan’s body. He grunted, and Buck did too. Another spurt of jizz seeped into Macklevan’s ass. Finally, Macklevan sensed Buck was done, and he winced. He wriggled, only fer the motion to make the pain worse.

He stayed still, letting Buck grind his sensitive cock in the soup of Macklevan’s booty. Spasms of pain ran up Macklevan’s spine, while Buck shuddered with spasms of pleasure.
Now that he’d done it, Buck was glad Mistah Gregarian made him do it. He’d needed that. But he was still gonna hafta remind Mistah Gregarian that he wasn’t a booty bandit.
“Ewwh, uhcckk-” Macklevan grunted. He wriggled the best he could in Buck’s grip.
“You bettuh pay ya debt,” Buck said as his cock slipped out to dangle ‘tween the good doctor’s cheeks. “Or Mistah Gregarian gonna make me do that again.”
Macklevan darted away. Cum dribbled down his legs. He sneered at Buck. “That was gross,” He winced, wiping cum off his thighs. “And unsanitary. You’re a barbarian.”
Buck shrugged. “I is what I is, mothahfuckah, and you is a deadbeat.”

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff