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Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Six

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Thumper held a towel around his waist when he walked from the shower to his apartment. It was right down the hall, no turns, no curves, no stairs. But somehow he got lost.
His sandals flip-flopped on the mildewy rug. Soon as he stepped onto the soggy carpet of the corridor, Thumper sensed unease. Something felt wrong. He stopped short.
His apartment was there, or it should be. Ain’t nobody use none the rooms on this level, ‘cept for him. So why done his belly gone wibbly?
Something was wrong. Something done change, maybe. The peeling wallpaper was the same, the smell of the decrepit wood and crumblesome brick of the building remained. But Thumper still felt wrong.

He padded to the left. That was correct, wasn’t it? Thumper couldn’t remember. It ain’t feel right. None these rooms looked right. There was numbers on a placard on the door. His apartment ain’t have a number placard, it had separate numbers, like on a mailbox.

And none these doors looked right — the frames had changed, maybe, the color, the peepholes, something he couldn’t quite place. Awful sounds boomed outta the shut doors he passed. Screams, whimpering, the whir of some motor, a moist splash like blood splattering on the wall.
That Woman in White popped up in his mind, but Thumper dismissed that. She made it hard to think — he ain’t struggle to think right now, he thought fine. What he saw looked wrong. He stopped outside the door closest to where his apartment should be.
But growling emanated through the door, some kinda simmery growl more human than animal. It was fierce, and it sounded like viscous goo dripped from the teeth of whatever was there, so Thumper left the door shut.
Then to his left, Thumper saw a big-ass powerhouse nigga, as high yellow as sunshine.
It was him — Thumper recognized that young cat, it was Thumper hisself, Thumper from thirty-four years ago. He got a handsome mug and just a couplea tats. His skin was taut, and his bladder neck ain’t gone batty yet — couldn’t see that, but Thumper could tell. This nigga, this cheekbone-laden young-nigga Wendell, he got the swagger of a man who do piss a reasonable number of times a day.
Thumper could tell from the tattoos that that young-nigga Wendell was from right before his prison sentence. He got them dice on double sixes on his shoulder. Thumper got that tat couplea days before the unlicensed boxing match that led to his arrest. Young-nigga Wendell ain’t got none the prison tats that present-day old-nigga Thumper got.
“Hey, nigga, hey!” he called out, but that young-nigga Wendell ain’t pay him no mind. He walked down the stairs, the stairs that shoulda led to Lipsweet. “Hey, Wendell! Wendell, hey! Hey, nigga!”
His voice ain’t seem to carry though, and Thumper weren’t sure if he was making noise at all. Young-nigga Wendell ain’t respond. He went down the stairs, and Thumper followed.
Ain’t none of it made sense, but Thumper weren’t cogitating upon reason right now. Young-nigga Wendell was from Before. Back when the world ran proper, before Thumper jumped outta the progression of time and sat in a box getting old, watching his bladder neck go buggy. Young-nigga Wendell was basking in glorious ignorance, and he don’t even know it.
At the bottom of the stairs shoulda been the backrooms behind Lipsweet. When Thumper got down there though, the back corridor was wrong — a hard marble floor, not the grimy linoleum that he recollected. There was paintings hung on the wall, ain’t no paintings in Lipsweet. They was awful abstractions of things but you could tell what they was, like one was a car, kinda, a tortured twisted car that looked haunted in every meaning of the word, like if a car could have a thousand-yard stare, this was it, even without eyes. Looking at it depressed Thumper, who forced hisself to look away.
Young-nigga Wendell done gone through the double doors into Lipsweet proper, or the place that shoulda been Lipsweet. But before old-nigga Thumper could follow, some thing walked past like it ain’t see him.
It was a horrid stack of flesh — arms and legs like flayed limbs, flaps of skin flopping as it moved, and its center was a wheel-shape, like a man mated with a rack — the torture device — as it moved, the wheel turned. The turning of the wheel caused a horrid grinding, squishing the flesh of the wheel itself and the limbs and the headless neck into a bloody paste. The wheel seemed to be what powered it too, rolling atop its legs to force them up and down.
Thumper was glad it ignored him, and he waited for it to pass. When he followed far behind through the doors into Lipsweet, the bloody-wheel fiend went to the bar and furtively swiped a bottle of liquor.
On the other side of the room stood young-nigga Wendell, addressing a crowd of reporters with microphones and cameras and notepads. They was notating every damn thing he said. Thumper recollected doing press conferences from back in his boxing days, but this weren’t one of them. This was later. He never did a press conference after getting the dice tat. It was just two days afterwards that he went to the underground boxing match, and it was only two days after that that he got arrested.
This was a press conference that ain’t happen cuz Thumper was in prison.
“Uh, yeah, yeah,” young-nigga Wendell was saying to one them reporters, who just asked some dumbass reporter question. “I been the Chesapeake champion for three years in a row, and nobody go’n take that crown away from me.”
“Do you have a strategy for tonight’s match?” asked a paltry honky with a tape recorder and a snooty nose.
In the real world, tape recorders and cameras and cameramen and microphones and boom mics and sound guys and producers and tittyfucking and factcheckers and journalists all done got replaced by a phone. But this was Before, when all them things existed.
“Uh-huh, sure do, strategy is to punch hard and punch far, baby!” Wendell pointed at the crowd of reporters who all went laughy-taffy. Youngish-nigga Wendell was like that. Thumper missed it. Everybody made fun of him now for saying that kinda shit. When you’re young and handsome, you can be silly and everyone assumes you making a joke and they sposedta laugh. When you’re old and got rickets in your knees, they assume you gone daft and they sposedta issue a corrective statement about your comments — seriously, that Davon nigga done “say a corrective about Thumper’s comments” during a all-bouncer meeting the other day, cuz Thumper said something about planking knuckly niggas out.
“Do you have a comment about the underground boxing ring broken up in Baltimore this week?” asked one the reporters. “Did you know about it?”
“Uh, I heard rumors, that’s all,” young-nigga Wendell said. He flexed a bicep, which stretched the sleeve of his button-down shirt. “They ain’t invite me cuz they knew there’d be no contest.” A tittering of polite laughter underhushed the crowd of reporters. He flexed the other bicep, and he laughed out loud like a charismatic donkey.
A long plonderous sigh came from Thumper. He wanna be this young nigga so bad he could taste it. Shit, if only young-nigga Wendell knew how good he had it. Thumper got lost in his notions until he saw young-nigga Wendell getting hot under his collar at some numptious honky.
“He don’t wanna say that to my face though, do he, you lor bitch?!” Young-nigga Wendell said. “Come up at me and say it, don’t pretend you concerned ’bout some Russian boxer, bullshit, bullshit, nigga, bullshit! I will rock that Bent-Dick Ovaltine honky any day of the week and twice on Sunday-“
“I’m just reporting on the comments, Benedikt Olvyntilvich said you will fold like an accordion-” the journalist was quaking like shake-n-bake, and maybe that was what set young-nigga Wendell off. He punched the fear offa that journalist’s mug.
The whole crowd of them burst into gasps and clicking cameras, as some couple of ’em ran off to find a phone — this was before cell phones, mind you. Blood poured from the journalist’s fist-snack of a nose.
Thumper stood in the back of the crowd, still holding a towel around his waist, shower water evaporating off them double-size shoulders he shared with young-nigga Wendell. His heart sank like this was happening to him, and it was, even if it was a different him, and he could feel that young-nigga Wendell’s world darkening as the cops arrived and put him in handcuffs. They dragged him outta the room, and again Thumper followed. The journalist with an eternal smear where his face usedta be lay on a stretcher, paramedics buzzing around him like officious bees.
In his bones lingered the same feelings as young-nigga Wendell — not just the dark ones about getting arrested but the victorious ones too, the feelings that told him he gots to punch out a journalist, that ain’t nobody gonna talk shit without getting that shit knocked outta him. Ain’t none the journalists or the cops or the paramedics act surprised. None them knew Thumper, but they expected it of him. Hell, Thumper expected it of himself. Young-nigga Wendell was default as hell.
That was the same part of him that signed up for that underground boxing ring. He couldn’t stand the fact that somebody else might win — would win obviously, if he ain’t fight in it — and then Thumper wouldn’t be the undisputed champion no more. There’d be somebody disputing. Thumper gotta be the toughest nigga around.
In prison, it’s easy to be the toughest nigga around. Easy for a tough nigga anyway. There’s a limited pool in the first place, and guards mostly keep him and his from them and theirs.
The door outside led to a parking lot spilling forth with the sound and smell of rain — actual rain! Thumper eager as a beaver followed the journalist on a stretcher and the squad of paramedics accompanying him outside.
But when he passed the doorway, he weren’t in no rainy parking lot. He was in Lipsweet, or a hellish copy of it. The layout was right, the bar, doors, tables, chairs, all that looked right. But it was filled with more of them horrid creatures, like that wheel-of-flesh thing he done saw. In fact that wheel of flesh was right over there, drinking from the bottle of bourbon it stole, the liquor dripping visibly down its open tract and lubricating the wheel grinding its flesh into loosemeat.
The fiends looked at him, or at least they shifted bits of theyselves so as to aim in his direction, since most of ’em ain’t have apparent eyes. Aside from the wheel of flesh, there was a pair of skeletons — not hollywood skeletons neither, these had rotting bits of organs attached, shattered teeth and discolored bones — some kinda reddish dragony thing and a cartoonish vampire straight offa cereal box. All them stared at Thumper like he was the weird one.
There was a young nigga Wendell again, sitting free — no cops to be seen — at one of the tables, like he ain’t notice the demons all around.
This youngish-nigga Wendell was older than the one at the press conference. He got lines on his face and one streak of gray on his temple. He was still younger than Thumper though. He swigged outta a bottle of beer, then murmured something at one hideous creature walking by. She gurgled, blood splattering out her mouth like she was chewing on glass, and then she mounted youngish-nigga Wendell’s lap so that her bare tits dangled afronta his face. Them tits was long and saggy and steada nipples at the end they both got jaws with double rows of sharp teeth, and they snapped at youngish-nigga Wendell who kept playing like he gonna suck on ’em.
Old-nigga Thumper watched for awhile. His young self laughed and flirted like he ain’t see the tit-jaws or the blood spilling outta that female’s throat. Thumper came up closer to him then, but youngish-nigga Wendell paid him no mind at first.
You know those posters that look like nothing but if you unfocus on ’em, you see a picture? Thumper saw that on youngish-nigga Wendell — he looked like the young handsome nigga he was when Thumper looked at him, but when he looked beyond him, at the demonic lady behind him, then outta the corner of his eye, Youngish-nigga Wendell looked different.
He looked like Rico.
He was wearing Rico’s soul like a suit, that was why. Youngish-nigga Wendell done will have murdered Rico thirty-four years from now. Rico weren’t even born yet.
Youngish-nigga Wendell noticed Thumper eventually and scoffed like he don’t talk to old niggas. “Whatchoo want, old man? I’m mackin’ on this female, don’chu see?”
“Yeah, yeah, I see.” Old-nigga Thumper wanna say so much more, but the demon woman made him wrinkle his nose, and her tits aimed they sharks in his direction. He wanna tell his young self to stay away, that his demon woman was trouble.
But youngish-nigga Wendell wouldn’t never listen. Never could tell that nigga nothing. Not like Thumper now, who takes in feedback and adapts to change readily. That’s on the parole checklist.
A tear-streaked young woman came in then, a real human — stall-blonde, pretty as pink but sob-a-lobbing out loud. She was followed by couple cops in plainclothes — detectives — and she pointed at youngish-nigga Wendell. “There he is! That one!”
Youngish-nigga Wendell jumped to his feet. “That bitch — you can’t trust that bitch!” Youngish-nigga Wendell squared up at the cops, and the demon-tits lady slinked off. “That bitch threw herself at me, she was into it the whole time, swear to God!” He ain’t fight back, but he ain’t cooperate neither, as the cops put him in handcuffs.
Again, old-nigga Thumper felt his heart sinking. Youngish-nigga Wendell was going to prison for sure. The plainclothes detectives said they was arresting him, and he struggled hard like a nigga should, but they got him, sure as sugar is sweet. They dragged him out the door, to what shoulda been the parking lot.
Thumper had enough of this. He ain’t need to watch hisself get arrested bunchesa times. Maybe that was his fate. Delsinerr said she could make him young again, let him live a life without being arrested that time thirty-four years ago, but what if that only lasted a couple months? What if Thumper got arrested again?
He went into the backroom and upstairs to where his apartment shoulda been. He ain’t need none this. Just got him upsetted.
You could keep your nose clean. Just follow the law. Stop wilding out. You don’t needta act that way.
But Wendell of all ages ain’t never see it like that. All-ages Wendell don’t like folks telling him what to do. He don’t like journalists and they bitch-nigga questions. He don’t like teasing young bitches who get him hard and then fuck off, leaving him with a angry dick and hyperactive fists.
Old-nigga Thumper do plow a nigga up the booty when he get a hardon that won’t go soft. Young niggas ain’t learn how to do that yet.
Since Thumper’s release, he bin focusing on how flawed the world was. Ain’t nothing work right, niggas was all tapping and dapping on they phones steada doing real nigga shit, and females was basically phones with tits attached, damn, they can’t stop facebooking long enough to suck a nigga dick.
But maybe it was Thumper that was flawed. He was flawed when he was young but was too strong and too handsome for anyone to tell him. He gotta learn that by stepping outta the world for a couple decades.
When he went upstairs, Thumper walked into a unmarked room, not the hallway he was expecting. This ain’t right at all.
In the unmarked room sat not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell — he was maybe late thirties now. Across from the table was a white man in a cheap suit. Another cop. Actually the same cop who arrested him downstairs, same hunk of honey shithead. Older now though, couple wrinkles on his jaws. Looked like he bin couching down, on the feud with the missus.
“You’re badly in debt, aren’t you? Is that why you needed money? The boxing money dried up, so you decided to rob a couple drug dealers, right? The Seventh Street Playas have gone to war with the Bloods anyway, so you might as well go in guns blasting, right?”
Not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell scoffed. “Boxing money ain’t dry up, jackass! I — I — I got surgery on my knees — my knees is rickety, but in a couple months I’ll be back in the ring-“
“So you just needed some cash to tide you over?” the detective said.
“Nah, bitch, nah, nah, I ain’t shoot no nigga,” not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell said. It ain’t sound believable though. Sounded like he was putting on a show for the detective and the camera and the inevitable judge and jury, and old-nigga Thumper could already tell where this was going.
Boxing don’t last forever. Not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell was kidding hisself if he thought he was still a contender at fortyish-years-old. What else was he gonna do? Coach some younger, handsomer boxer? Do a color commentary for some cutrate teevee channel? (or internet channel, whatever, old-nigga Thumper got no time for “streaming teevee”) After so many years boxing, not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell prolly got concussions on the brain and would make a fool of hisself getting on teevee.
So it made sense to rob some drug dealers. Coulda made enough to retire on. Instead, not-so-young-nigga Wendell was gonna go to prison and turn into old-nigga Thumper, who want nothing to do with this.
When he turned around to leave, there was the door to his apartment, right afronta him, like he done walk past it before. He opened it and scurried in before he could lose it again.
Inside at last, he sat by the window and watched the sun come up without a trace of tired in his bones. He craved the comfortable confines of a prison cell, where at least he could sleep. A prison cell was cozy, crowded in a good way. The apartment was cold and helpless. He felt like the last orphan in a abandoned orphanage.
It felt good to watch the sun rise. It all felt less real in the daytime. He went about his business as though ain’t nothing happen last night.
And maybe nothing did happen. He weren’t tired. He recollected being awake all night, but he weren’t tired his morning. His old-nigga body couldn’t stay up all night and not be sleepy the next day, so he musta slept. Maybe that was all a dream.
Or maybe his dreams was real, and the daylight was a fantasy.
Regardless, night came along at night-time, and Thumper found hisself back at Lipsweet manning the door. The joint was jumping from a early hour tonight cuz some husky lumberjacks from central Maine was drinking, having done finish they six-month contract. They was on the rugged for sure, and they smelled like a pine tree’s armpit. They got boku dollars to spend though. They was young and vigorous, and they looked at Thumper like he was old and uncool and he oughta be embarrassed to be so damn old and so damn uncool.
One them in particular catched Thumper’s ire. His name was Alain, and he pronounced it in the French fashion like he was too good to end with a consonant, but he spoke with a whole rack of trashy yuppers in his voice. He was a well-tanned straightlane with a face like a kick to the balls, and he was loud and pinchy upon the dancers.
“You best slow yo’ roll, Alain,” Thumper said when he bodied hisself to the lumberjacks’ table. A mountain of empty beer bottles peaked high above they table, and they was now mad onto the whiskey train. The dancer Alain pinched done curtsy away, and the lumberjacks was hooting for another one to come near.
“Yes, sah. Yesssah, yessah,” Alain said with mock obedience. He was sloshed as hell, and moving his head made him dizzy. He shrugged it off though, and he shrugged off Thumper too — a fateful mistake for Alain. Then he guffawed and slapped his knee and grabbed the ass of a woman walking by.
Another fateful mistake. Alain be piling up blunders like firewood.
“Hey, you honky shit!” Thumper punched him right across the face, knocking him to the ground amid sparks of blood from his nose. The other lumberjacks jumped back, but one leapt at Thumper. He was too drunk to do more than bump into him though, and Thumper shoved him to the ground alongside his buddy. Thumper mounted Alain and punched his dazed and bloody face again. “Don’chu grab a woman here!” He was really more pissed that Alain did it right afronta him, afronta Thumper, who was in charge here, like Alain got no idea he was just some fucking woodcutter like from a fairytale, he ain’t jack shit in Lipsweet. Thumper ran this jawn on point, and honkies got a role to fill like everywhom else. That role don’t include disrespecting Thumper.
Or pinching dancers without paying first.
Taking a step back, Thumper’s blood boiled. Every nobody in this bar stared at him, none them listening to the disappointing rock music that dribbled out the speakers like a pansy’s nut. Music was awful nowadays. Thumper’s hands balled into fists at his side, flurrying to fly.
But Thumper couldn’t get the police called on him, or his parole officer’d find out. If Alain went to the hospital, Thumper’d be charged, he’d get his parole revoked. He’d be like that young-nigga Wendell, fated for jail, destined to become old-ass Thumper with the wonky bladder neck.
So Thumper let his blood run cold, and he stone-faced the mean-mugging lumberjacks.
That ain’t mean he was gonna let Alain get away with it. A man shouldn’t go groping no female, that was wrong, and that was a lesson Thumper wanna teach. So he grabbed Alain by the nape and dragged him outta the bar. Ain’t nobody like him much or lumberjacks in general, so that was fine, and they all assumpted Thumper was gonna deposit Alain in the alley like a unwanted infant.
“Oh, you are gonna treat me like that, eh?” Alain said as he swaggered free. Thumper let him go in the corridor behind Lipsweet. Alain both stood aggressively at Thumper and inched back, finna go out the backdoor to the alley. He was too drunk to realize that weren’t the backdoor. Instead, he inched hisself to the door to the stairs that led up to Thumper’s apartment.
Thumper gave him a shove, and Alain toppled to his ass against the door, which opened, and he toppled his ass further, onto the floor by the stairs. He rollicked around, trying to get up, but he was drunk as a punk. Thumper pulled his pants down to his ankles.
“You intact, you honky shit?” Thumper asked, as his plan finally formed — all he was thinking up till now was to get Alain away from witnesses without committing a felony, then do something that ain’t murder.
Alain guffawed. “You never met a lumberjack before, huh?”
Was that a yes or a no? Prolly a no, Thumper thunk, but Alain was right, Thumper don’t know any lumberjacks.
Thumper separated Alain’s meaty sscheeks — he was definitely not intact, Thumper saw that clear as mud. He slipped his dicktip right in, couple inches making it before Alain twitched into a flexed stack of hairy muscle. Thumper leaned on him for support and to keep him in position.
His clenching turned his butthole into a stop sign, but Thumper weren’t taking no for a answer right now. He slapped Alain hard across the face, the sound ringing out like a angry church bell. Alain whimpered and sneered his nose, and the tension in the resta his body made his booty open up.
That was enough for Thumper to plump his dick up Alain’s guts. Alain twitched in pain, and he clawed at the ground under his back.
A burst of pleasure shivered up Thumper’s spine, as his cock got deep enough to stick. Alain’s booty gripped it tight, despite his grimaces and his clenching. Thumper kept a good hold on him. The angle was awkward, Thumper sorta draped over his muscley back at the bottom of the stairs, but at least Alain weren’t gonna escape. Thumper held his place until Alain’s breathing slowed and he relaxed.
“Who done wreck yo’ booty, honky?” Thumper asked. He ain’t really want a answer, but he wanna wait for Alain to relax enough to answer. Then Thumper was gonna plow him good.
“My boss, Mr. Chambreux, he-” Alain winced and clawed at the wall. “Owww! Shit! Get off me!” He fell limp again, as Thumper smacked him in the head. He began pumping his dick in and out, Alain’s tightly-muscled booty squeezing his shaft the whole time. It sent pangs of pleasure up Thumper’s body.
“Mistuh Chambreux?” Thumper frowned. “I rec’nize that name.” He stopped moving. Damn did Alain’s booty feel good. Thumper do enjoy a honky who ain’t intact but ain’t loose yet neither, a nice muscley honky who got tightness for days. But the name Chambreux got his wrinkles wrinkling. “You know Mistuh Chambreux?”
“He owns the lumber company I work for, eh! He owns a lot around here,” Alain said through his panting, seething jaws. He sucked on his teeth and again stiffened up, trying to crawl up the stairs. That made his butthole squeeze tight around Thumper’s dick, which he inched bit by bit deeper into Alain’s booty.
“Hey, is he a actor? He do plays?” Thumper’s voice broke cuz he was nearing his orgasm despite hisself — he wanna keep talking, to find out more about Mr. Chambreux — but if he pulled out, Alain would skedaddle for sure. Thumper’s lower half kept humping on its own accord, and Alain’s guts kept sending a wave of pre-orgasmic bliss through Thumper’s frame.
“What?” Alain wrinkled his nose.
“Does he do plays? Like a actor? Theater, not movie.”
Alan shook his head, then shrugged and nodded. “Kinda. Owww, shit!” He threw his head back, then down, making it bang on the stairs. “Goddamn-“
“I’ll finish quick if you answer my question. Is he a actor?”
“What, no — he — well,” Alain said, squinting and squirming. “He told me once he had an audition to get to.” He craned his head up and whispered to Thumper. “He said it like it was a secret.” He laughed but he sounded serious too, and he groaned as he felt Thumper orgasm inside him.
“Huh…” Thumper’s voice wavered — he both considered what Alain said and orgasmed at the same time, unable to resist hisself any longer. His muscles spasmed and rippled, as he grunted up a sound that echoed in the cozy stairwell.
Thumper rammed his dick in and out, moaning into the muscled meat of Alain’s back. He got that hairy-honky back that Thumper found both disgusting and hilarious, but it took more than some furry shoulderblades to hold him back. He grunted and shot a thick jizzwad deep into him, then another, then another, and he filled Alain’s guts with creamy cum.
A long sigh came outta his lungs as a spurting flow of jizz came outta his cock. Thumper felt a potent release, all the tension of the day draining away. Ramrodding a man, he thunk, was less pleasurable but more relaxing than fucking a woman. He ain’t even gotta hold Alain down as his last couple cumdrops drained up his guts.
As he finished, Alain ain’t resist no more. He knew better than to blueball a nigga, or at least this nigga. He let Thumper spew nut up into him, and Alain fell limp until Thumper’s cock finally plopped out.
Wiping his dingdong clean with Alain’s flannel shirt, Thumper screwed up his eyes. “Shit…”
Alain stayed soft, both too drunk and in too much pain to move. He groaned. “I dunno if he got the part from the audition though, he never said that. He said earning an audition was hard enough. He had to sell his soul just to get an audition.” Alain laughed like he believed it but wanted Thumper to think he didn’t. “I’m sure he was pullin’ my leg. He musta been.”

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Seven

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Thumper waited in the locker room at the homeless shelter. He was outta the Lipsweet building. He was outta Bangor. He found the furthest homeless shelter there was. Couldn’t even see that city from here.
It felt good. Back when he was in lockup, imagining hisself leaving prison only to stay in a homeless shelter felt like a disaster. He’d be a trash-high nigga if he did that, flopping into lowness cuz he be too default to rise above anything.
But now, he was glad to be here.
And it was sure to rain tonight. Thumper’s phone said it would start late tonight, and Thumper fully intended to go outside and feel it. Thumper got a app on his phone that predicts the weather. He’d prefer it if the weather was unknown, but now that he got the app, he couldn’t stop checking it. The phone got itself in Thumper’s noggin and wouldn’t let go.
Thumper done left Bangor for good and told Rico to get out too. He ain’t tell him Carson wanted him dead, cuz Rico was the kinda dumb nigga who might think he was big enough to take Carson down. But he told Rico he best bounce, and he told Carson Rico was gone. Both those things was true.
He lay on his bunk, the lower one — ain’t nobody even take the upper jawn, prolly cuz his biggish body and bumping looks scared ’em off. It felt like a prison bunk. Prolly was the same as a prison bunk. He could leave anytime though, that’s what made the bunk feel comfortable. Thumper could handle anything so long as he could leave.
That’s when he saw a hunky-dory whiteboy with a big fat head of blond hair like a girl, like a pretty girl who don’t know how slutty she is. He was slim but thick-butted, and you just know he was pink under them clothes. Thumper could dig a pink whiteboy. He was marble-hard too. Nice.
Lights was off, but nobody made niggas go to bed in a homeless shelter. Guards’d be hollering if they was this loud in prison. Niggas was gabbing on, using phones as flashlights — seriously, everything was a phone nowadays — laughing, smoking tobacco and weed and maybe something more too, watching teevee on they phones, texting females, playing dumbass phone games, arguing over chargers and outlets, looking at nudie pics on they phone screens. Every. Damn. Thing. A. Phone.
That hunky-dory marble-hard returned from the shower, carrying his shower shit in a cute plastic basket like a female might have on her bike. His phone was in there too, in a plastic baggie so it don’t get wet.

“Hey, whiteboy, what’s yo’ name?” Thumper asked. He stood there in his drawers. He ain’t take his shower yet, cuz he still finna get dirty. The good kind of dirty.

“Greg.” His eyes bugged out like he ain’t never seen a uncool nigga before.
“Hmm, nice to meetcha, Greg,” Thumper said. He like a whiteboy with a name no nigga has. That got him hard. Betcha Greg got a sexy mama too. That kinda whiteboy always do. She prolly crackerlicious, with sinkwater-blonde hair and tits that sag at the perfect angle. Hmm-hmm! If she got ass like her son, she be perfect. Bet she do gobble up nigga dicks, gobble ’em up like chicken nuggets. White people love nuggets. “You got a mama around here, Greg?”
“What? No. My mom died fifteen years ago,” Greg said. He set down his shower basket next to his duffel bag.
That gave Thumper a sadness. Sometimes a nigga forget other folk got they own shit going on. Greg woulda been little when she died. But Thumper ain’t wanna show softness, less Greg get the wrong idea, or even worse the bunchesa niggas all around picked up the notion Thumper was weak. So Thumper sucked on his teeth like Greg should be embarrassed his mama was dead. “Shit, whiteboy, Greg, hey, you wanna share a bunk wit’ me?”
“What? No,” Greg said with a wrinkle of his nose.
He grabbed Greg by the neck. “Listen, whiteboy, you best do as I say, quiet as a rat, or e’rry nigga in this place go’n come watch.” He squeezed his whiteboy neck just hard enough that Greg struggled to breathe, mouth gaping like a lake trout. Greg sat on his bunk, with Thumper standing afront him, so Greg’s wriggling made the whole double-bunk shake.
“Waaaatch what?” Greg asked through his quiet chokes.
Thumper lowered the front of his prison boxers with one hand, his other pushing Greg by the neck to kneel. He slapped Greg’s cheeks with his dick, then forced it into his mouth.
With a gag and a writhe, Greg almost got away. But Thumper shoved him back onto his bunk, where he sat with his mouth open like another, sadder lake trout. Ain’t nobody could see. They mighta peeped Thumper push him to his knees, but ain’t nobody give a damn about some hoboish whiteboy with thin lips. Thumper kept his boxers on, he just lowered the front to take his dick out, so nobody could see what he done unless they was right there. The bunk got sheets draped all around it, which blocked Greg, who crouched in there with just a pillow and Thumper’s dingadingdoo to keep him company.
He musta done this before, cuz he ain’t seem too confused. Greg stayed there like a surrendered soldier, and he let Thumper impregnate his mouth. He ain’t even discooperate and make Thumper force it. He parted his lips obedient-like, and Thumper rammed his part-hard meat right in.
The tight warmth and moisture of Greg’s mouth got him all firm up soon as summer, and Greg’s dome made buncha moist slapping sounds. The noise wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the general thrum and din of the shelter. Whoever was bunking up nearby musta heard, but they mighta all been asleep. Nobody said nothing anyhow.
Soon enough Thumper’s dick was throbbing like a drummer, and a fat load of precum burst onto Greg’s face. Greg pulled off Thumper’s knob to gag.
“Ewwhhck, man, c’mon-” Greg retched, and every inch of whiteboy on him rippled like a breezy autumn. He spat up quietly into his hands.
While Greg tried to stop gagging, Thumper crawled into the lower bunk with him, careful to not make noise or pull down the sheets that acted as curtains around the bunkspace. In the bunk, it smelled like scaredy saliva and nigga meat. Thumper do love that smell. They oughta bottle it and get a hefty bitch with a skanky ass to endorse it.
The whiteboy wiggled like a piglet in a oven. “Hey, get off me, what-?”
But Thumper put one hand over his mouth. “Yo, quit squirmin’, Greg, I’mma ram ya. Hold still-“
“What does that mean?!” His voice was muffled cuz of Thumper’s hand, but Thumper could still make out the words. Greg be squirming like a winter worm.
“Hold still, and I’ll show you,” Thumper said. He got one hand on the whiteboy’s mouth, the other holding his nape and squeezing hard enough to hurt. He bucked like a weak bull, as Thumper rammed his now-hard dick at the whiteboy’s ass.
Thumper kept them prison boxers on, just lowered to bare his crotch. Thumper liked the way that felt like prison again — like prison in a good way.
Greg tensed up and grunted in pain. Thumper clucked his tongue, grinding his dick into that hole. Greg’s back arched as a pang of pleasure ran through Thumper’s body. His dick done precum up, so the goo lubed his shaft and made it hard for Greg to pucker with enough force to kick Thumper’s meat out. Thumper got plentya experience breaking open whiteboys. Reluctant crackers thicken the tastiest of chowders, nigga, and you can take that to the bank!
‘Cept you can’t, cuz banks is just apps now. Every. Damn. Thing. A. Phone. Everything ‘cept this whiteboy’s butthole.
“Ow, shit!” Greg seethed through his teeth. “C’mon, be cool, man, be cool!”
“Sssssh…” Thumper murmured. He smacked first one asscheek, then the other, and each time it caused a twitch in the whiteboy’s spine, followed by another inch or two of dickmeat sliding into him. A jolt of pre-orgasmic pleasure ran up Thumper’s spine, and he rammed hard.
“Owwww!” Greg screamed the best he could, but since Thumper squeezed his neck, Greg couldn’t take a deep breath. All he did was oomph and squirm and squeeze his guts around Thumper’s dick. That sent Thumper over the edge.
A grunt and a groan condensed hotly on Greg’s cheek. Thumper moaned right into his ear, making Greg cringe and cry out. Thumper swallowed them whiteboy tears up. “Hmm-hmm, boy, don’t make buncha noise, or all the niggas here go’n want a turn.”
A flood of cum hit the whiteboy’s guts, great creamy gobs of it flowing into him. He hung his head low and let his ass fill up, while Thumper moaned again and his muscles undulated above the whiteboy’s body. He stopped holding him down. Greg was too numpetty to realize he could just crawl away now.
Instead, Greg grimaced as a continuous flow of jizz seeped into his flesh. It felt better than Thumper had experienced in some time, as he was relaxed and calm, no longer worried about Her. All that mattered was this moment, draining his balls up Greg’s backside. It made him feel serene as a waterfall in the springtime, in like Ireland or some shit — Thumper saw a commercial for soap that made him wanna buy a sweater and move to Ireland to lounge around in moss, not buy soap. But Thumper ain’t allowed to leave Maine, so instead, Thumper closed his eyes and moaned into Greg’s ears.
“Ow, c’mon, man…” Greg whimpered like a forgotten puppy. He shuddered, which massaged Thumper’s shaft and sent a wave of pleasure through his body.
When his dick was good and limp, Thumper let Greg expel it. He ain’t take it out, and he ain’t let Greg use his hand. But he stopped fighting back when Greg grunted and writhed and squeezed Thumper’s sensitive cockshaft out, bit by bit. As Thumper’s cock popped free, a moment of post-nut clarity lightbulbed up in his mind.
I gotta do somethin’ to stop that play.
His shaft was gooey and warm, dripping into Greg’s buttcheeks. Greg still had no idea he could crawl away. Thumper got no hold on him and no interest in him anymore. Greg got choices but was too weak to pick one.

If Thumper don’t wanna be a flee-away filly, he could go back, not to do it, but to stop it. A man do take action, and Thumper was a nigga who did.

He done got focused on how Delsinerr affected him. Thumper ain’t wanna lose his soul. Prison was hellish enough for a nigga. But now that he was away from that building and from her, he understood what she did say — this “play” was a invocation, which Thumper’s phone said was “a summoning of a deity”.
Thumper don’t like that kinda play. He liked the kinda theater where pretty whitegirls sing annoying songs. Like Grease. That’s a good play. He saw that movie in prison buncha times.
There was only one deity Thumper approved of, and He weren’t no deity that Bitch in White would summon.
He could stop that play. He was in a unique position. For damn near every day he been on this earth, all Thumper could do was stay alive and fight. A virtuous day was a day with nothing to do. But now, Thumper got a chore, and it was a good one.
Thumper wiped off and put his clothes back on, ignoring Greg’s frantic attempts to clean his butthole without being seen. Greg steady shot dirty-dog looks at Thumper, who saved all them looks up for later. Then Thumper left the homeless shelter and hitchhiked back into downtown Bangor.
The trucker who picked Thumper up, after a good half-hour of thumbing it on the side of the road, was a roly-poly pinkthumb, like a pile of uncooked pastry came to life and cultivated a forest of body hair. He said he weren’t worried about Thumper looking like a cast-iron nigga cuz he went to prison too; he did five years inside and five years on parole. He started trucking cuz that was the only way to get permission to leave the state from his parole officer.
So maybe it was possible to get permission to go to Maryland! Thumper don’t have a driver’s license though.
The trucker was on some uppers that kept him jabbing and jawing, and he made Thumper stroke him off too. He tried to make Thumper slurpy-slurp on his knob, but Thumper don’t play that way. He just used two fingers to jimmy the trucker’s runty niblet up and down. By the time the trucker’s amphetamine-addled wang dribbled out his watery nut, the truck was approaching Bangor.
Thumper’s heart sank. Jacking that trucker off at least distracted him from what he gotta do. Before the trucker dropped him off, Thumper told the man what was going on. He looked at Thumper like a somebody-nigga’s crazy old uncle graybeard, like he regretted picking Thumper up.
“The Bilderberg Group controls all that shit, don’t worry about it,” said the trucker when Thumper got outta the cab. He be sniffling and rubbing his nose like his brain was leaking out his nostrils. “Bohemian Grove, etc. They won’t let the world end, Thumper. It’d be bad for business.” The truck door shut, and he gave Thumper a nod and a bob through the open window. “Stay cool, friend.”
That pondered itself around in Thumper’s noggin. But he went to the Gregarian building anyway. His heart pounded faster the closer he got, until he arrived at the block and saw the building. Then his heart slowed to a measured pace, like when he got into it with the Crips in prison. He stayed calm as a cucumber and composed as a cantaloupe.

The worst part was that he had missed the rain. Bangor was wet. It done rain earlier, but Thumper was outta the city then. The air remained soggy. Puddles prowled atop the pavement. Thumper splashed through ’em down the streetside to that movie theatre on Stranger Street. The streetlight on the sidewalk was burnt out, so the movie theatre’s door was plagued in dark.
Actually, now that Thumper looked, it weren’t true that the streetlight was burnt out. It wasn’t there.

The city never built a streetlight afronta the theater. The sidewalks was lit up along both sides of the street, but not at the theater. The streetlight niggas skipped that spot.
As Thumper came closer, a pair of drunky-lucky lads lashed down the way like jolly liquids. They crossed the street before they came to the shadowy area afronta the theater, whose door was propped open. They ain’t give it no thought, they just crossed the street, just like the city planners never gave no thought to skipping the streetlight afronta the theater. Thumper never noticed the lack of a streetlight neither.
Come to think of it, Thumper never did walk past the theater before. He came right up to it that one time when he looked in the window, but otherwise when he walked this street, he crossed to the other side without giving it a second thought. Or even a first thought.
The theater be hiding itself from a nigga’s peepers.
No hiding from Thumper though. He went right into them shadows like omens so poor, coming to the open door coated in the old decor of posters well-tore up from long before. His hazy face that once more wore those crazy days of yore did tour his dreamy gaze aboard a maze of fiends and steaming demon blobbies leaning slow in the lobby’s seams like beams of creamy knobs and unclean snow. That Woman there reamed glows redly, rain-day ready, feeling his heady flows and tangling eddies like uncooking spaghetti. She spoke steady as a wheeze to a unsoftened sneeze whose coffiny head bled cotton-thin threads of forgotten-bin pennies, its eyeless sockets peeking like sentries.
Outing from the entry, Thumper fled free on bent knees to the wet concrete of the left-side street. He ain’t know if he was being strategious or showing his yellow belly, but he knew he couldn’t go in the front door past them demons.
The rain was gonna restart soon. The stars was already clouded by darkness, and the air was thick with wetness. He was ready for ark-building weather. He just hoped he don’t die first. He went to the other side of the building, where Lipsweet was on the outfront. He ain’t wanna be seen, so he went to the alley behind the bar. He still got his key to the back door.
But when he stuck it in the knob, the door opened before he could twist it.
Davon stood there, both his smiling mug and the lavender band-aid upon it took aback by Thumper. Davon looked at him like a inconvenient expiration date, then he said, “Yo, Lipsweet’s closed fo’ the night, Thumper, Mister Gregarian said the whole building’s getting fumigated.”
Thumper curled his lip at Davon’s nougaty mug, which stared down Davon’s nose at Thumper at the same time, cuz Davon was uppity like a fog in the sky. Davon still thought he was in charge, cuz Thumper ain’t tell nobody he quit. They call that “ghosting”, Thumper done ghost Davon. Thumper knew about ghosting cuz he savvied today’s slang, he was a full-stack ice-cold nigga a la mode, in touch and in vogue but outta sight, irie as hell, a tubular true blue dawg who got it goin’ on in the fast lane, and he do be turnin’ on, tunin’ in and droppin’ out, which was mighty white of him, but he kept it real, kept it tight, kept it classy and sassy, staying woke on the cutting edge, maintainin’ to the end, groovy like a hit movie far out the park and over the top, as he do pop wicked sang-froid, cuz he still had it and remained down for it, up for it and so over it all, off the hook, off the chain and off-book, like so totally random, a fashionable big man on campus 23 skiddooin’ the zeitgeist with mad skills on a tear, cuz this big fig fights The Man, and he be Da Man and da goat, e’rrybody’s homie who e’rrybody digs, cuz he a man’s man and a ladysman, round-the-clock stylish as gay Paree, slammin’ top-grade salmon, callin’ shots like a sniper on the phone and reppin’ M-D proper as a star who took center-stage suave as the mob, a righteous dude who straight-up got it, rizz, game, gumption, drip and spunk, this hunky-dory bruh be trendy as Japan, with je ne sais quoi all over, hot-rodding in the driver’s seat, he has a gas cookin’ with a full tank of blast, cuz this hep cat got a gold medal in puttin’ on the ritz, that’s how he stays the current thing, the mizzle of the moment, keeping the beat as he walks the line, in like Flynn, stackin’ wins in season, in style and in demand but outta stock, the meowin’ cat’s pajamas and the bee’s knees — hitting the scene right on, this vato sips chido, vibin’ on fleek, on point and on the ball like a state of the art seal, lookin’ smart and snazzy, dapper as a rapper, rockin’ on a roll, daddy-o, no diggity, so fresh and so clean on his brightest days, made in the shade, up to date like a calendar, nifty and spiffy as a kahuna, guns and cheese, funky as fatback, metal as steel and punk as a mohawk, with it to the max, absolute fire, fierce, dope, smooth, bomb, choice, good, boss, def, keen, swell, mean, fly, neat, nice, sweet, high, chic, mint, hot, big, top, hip, ace, slick, great, lit, rad, brill, flash, chill, bad, sick, phat, ill, cash and cool as sunglasses. Gen Z ain’t got nothing on this nigga.
“You ain’t scheduled tonight. Why you here?” Davon asked, oblivious as oblivion, his ignorance as vast as the universe was wide. His handsomeness was unshattered by awareness about what was happening here tonight or about Thumper’s coolness.
“You ain’t in charge of shit, Davon. Move out the way.”
“Lipsweet’s closed.”
“I ain’t goin’ to Lipsweet!” Thumper said, key still in hand. His simmering done boil over, and he squared up at Davon, who stood in the doorway like a clump of handsome cholesterol. “Lemme in, prettyboy, or I’mma ram this key at that band-aid on yo’ cheek until you so ugly yo’ mama don’t love you.” He pushed past Davon. “I suggest you go home and fuck a mirror, nigga.”
A sigh of relief chambered outta him when the door slammed shut, Davon on the outside of it. It wasn’t safe in here, but it wasn’t wide-open like the parking lot, and at least he done got away from Her and them demon-things.
But now the hard part began: he gotta stop the play.
His phone be mad beeping and booping. Thumper got no bandwidth for that though. He got a chore to do. He ain’t read the texts.
He went upstairs to go past his old apartment, because he knew there was a back way to the theater there. So far so good. That maze effect was gone, and he made his way to the correct stairwell no problem, easy as pimping on a Friday. Then he creeped down the stairs to the ground floor.
After that, he weren’t entirely sure of the way. There was some offices or something and a door with a sign marked “server room”. Thumper got no idea what that meant. It weren’t fulla waitresses, he checked. All it got was computers without screens.
The server room door opened, and out came that farty spicetip Rajesh. His eyes lit up when he saw Thumper. “Oh, hey, hey, Mr. Gregarian said to come find you. He needs you to go-“
“Nah, Rajesh.”
Rajesh stopped short, eyebrows flapping like a bland curry. “Oh, uh… He just said — you gotta check your phone, did you see him on Whatsapp?”
“What app?”
“Whatsapp. He sent-“
“What? Which app?”
“No, Whatsapp — he said he made a group — it’s on your phone, I downloaded it last week for you.” Rajesh held out his own phone as if to demonstrate how to hold a phone, and he looked at Thumper like Thumper got shit on his nose and don’t know it.
“Shut the fuck up, Rajesh,” Thumper said. He shoved Rajesh at the wall. Thumper could be dead soon, and he ain’t spending his last moments on Earth talking about what app Mr. Gregarian was on.
Thumper’s phone made some whoopy-doopy-whoop noises. He wanna ask Rajesh how to make that stop or what it means. But Rajesh looked frightened as a gazelle when Thumper lioned at him, and Thumper got no time to delay. Rajesh scurried away like a poppy seed, and Thumper continued on to the theater.
Once he saw a storm of texts from his parole officer complaining he ain’t respond, Thumper clucked his tongue and turned his phone’s volume all the way down. If he died right now, he ain’t spending his last moments abiding by parole.
“Mistuh Chambreux, Mistuh Chambreux!” Thumper said when he saw that wrinkle-tinkle cracker, who was all taciturn jowls. Thumper was glad to find the theater but scairt to see the ebony emptiness in Mr. Chambreux’s soulless ivories.
“Who are you?” Mr. Chambreux asked.
“My name’s Thumper, suh,” he said. Having done got worked up about coming here, Thumper ain’t think of what to do when he found Mr. Chambreux. “Listen, mistuh, you can’t do-“
“Thumper? What kinda name is Thumper.” He pulled his robe’s hood shut to cover his face. “Nevermind, get out of here, I’m about to go on.”
“I know. I know what you doin’,” Thumper said. “You puttin’ on a play, the summonin’ of a deity. You can’t do what she wants — Delsinerr, she-“
A hubbub interrupted Thumper from the stage, and Mr. Chambreux shrugged him off. He went to the curtain. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, and you’re not going to stop me.” He walked onto the stage and hissed at Thumper, “Get out of here.”
Thumper stayed by the curtain. He watched Mr. Chambreux stand in a brilliant spotlight. The light made it impossible to see who or what was in the audience, but their silhouettes revealed dozens of horrid bodyshapes Thumper don’t wanna see clearly. Hooded humans filled up the front rows with a low murmur of a chant. Mr. Chambreux’s New England-honky voice was thready and warbling, echoing against the theater’s ceiling as he began a monologue in a strange language.
Hooded figures wheeled a coffin onstage. Somebody was in the coffin, banging on it and screaming to be let out. Thumper wanna go out there and open it, but he held back, lightbulbing up a plan — he couldn’t just rush the stage afront all those demons and the chanting cultists.
Reaching a pause in his monologue, Mr. Chambreux pried open the coffin. It weren’t attached firmly, but he got old-honky arms and struggled with it, while the clarion chanting grew louder.
Finally, the coffin lid popped up.
A woman lifted her head and opened her mouth to scream. No sound emerged, she just looked at the audience agape.
The woman was Cherry — the stripper — Heather, the small sweet red fruit. She looked dazed and pale, terrified as a mouse. Her head darted left and right, squinting her asians at the fiendish silhouettes in the audience, stagelights blaring at her pretty little face.
Mr. Chambreux held a ruby- and pearl-encrusted knife in his hand. Thumper connected the dots quick as toast. He was gonna kill that girl. Mr. Chambreux kept intoning arcane syllables in that strange language as he aimed his knife for her chest.
The whole theater shook like a fearful titty, and Thumper held onto the stage curtain for support. A whoosh of air almost knocked him over. It did knock over Cherry, who struggled to get outta the coffin with her arms tied behind her back.
A long green-gray tentacle emerged mid-air in the center of the stage. That was followed by more tentacles, exiting from a warping swirl of cloud and energy. The vortex farted out a palpable odor of rotten eggs.
Cherry’s screams suddenly sounded — pitchy and loud peals like paint, plaintive and sobbing — like a switch got clicked, she yelled like a banshee. Her voice was overpowered by a guttural ancient moan reverberating out the vortex.
A gristly body was clawing its way through now, attached to the tentacles.
Outta mere air, Delsinerr appeared, weird as a meager meerkat. Thumper’s beleagurement ain’t begin till now, so she musta done teleport in from the border within. He clenched fists of bite to ignore her sordid win. She stank like a bin afronta him.
“Mister White,” she said with chords of din. “You returned, so unlike aborted kin. Is you here to short my rim? Or to fork what yo’ been? You go’n drop pork with chagrin in exchange for a fort of skin? You can live with delightful sin in a river rife with the lights of life that has never been. War will sustainably spin, and you can be un-anchored by the petty restraints of bankers and lawmakers, morally slim.”
“I already ain’t do it.”
“You done fold the role of Rico, but this spot here is fulla moles who burrow fo’ souls. You can still steal a part of the goal in this art of tolls,” she spoke, sour as a tart. Onstage, it done start, and Mr. Chambreux made his long curved blade ready to raid in order to trade a heady way for a future to flay. In dishonor’s log, he groaned on along his monologue, and he aimed his knife at Cherry’s stripper skill.
He finna kill her, a sinner in life, to rip her like a miller and bill her for the balance, he might.
Unless Thumper did bite. Sans fright, he could steal the meal and a toe from Mr. Chambreux, take his role and go go go back to blue skies thirty-four dreary years ago.
“That’s the cue fo’ my eyes,” Delsinerr said, slow as the blues make a nigga feel wise, and she spilled like stew onto the stage askew for her size. “Take yo’ prize, He Who Thumps, or die like a lie.”
His brain returned to function, and Thumper knew what he gotsta do. But he needed a weapon of his own. There weren’t nothing backstage he could use.
If he was in prison, he’d get creative about finding a weapon.
So he did what he woulda done then — he made one. He punched the plywood backdrop of a starry night sky, which waited backstage to be wheeled on later. His fist collapsed through the plywood, which splintered around his forearm and drew streams of blood.
He grabbed a chunk and concealed it in his fist. The sharp tip protruded past his fingers.
Then he sprinted onstage, into the confusion of Delsinerr’s cage. He hurried his rage cuz he ain’t know how long this speech got to fade. Mr. Chambreux gonna reach a final stage soon as a endless age.
Thumper could stab him like a wage or the ginger Cherry like a thinner sage to take the offer that was proffered off Her.
Scoffing sure at inner outrage, he hesitated like a bin of blank page, eager to live his life again, unfairly merry amid the deadness of Cherry, no more living free as a dairy cow. Now he was daring to prowl her scary and bow at that Lady of Vows with hellishly hairy howls.
It was a choice he was born to foul, with a scowl he wore like the folds of her gown. In expectation he drowns. Thumper never does respect a section of frowns. Projections of evil unbound like a costume of sound, but Thumper lives up to shoot down.
Yet her boss fumes astound. His plywood shank was battlefield-ground to the sharpest of tips, rank as a bank that flips burial mounds.
It is God’s life that for all-time abounds
With the shiv that he found, he stabbed, not Cherry just barely, nor did he ram ho at Mr. Chambreux. Blowing free will, his street-filled beat aimed his shank at Her mien. Delsinerr screamed. As Thumper do, he stabbed mean, and he stabbed perfectly clean.
From her did stream death and furious beams illuminating things. The shiv kept rivening her belly, driven by He Who Do Thump into her rump and her stump and her jelly. He poked his last, instead grabbing that mask, ripping it fast off her face so so vast. Pinpricks of light did pass out that lass and cash out her vile pack.
Delsinerr slacked a mile and bent over. Though she went to tend clover atop the bug on her mug with both hands like a rug, Thumper saw her near and far dump her fear for raw clumps of the stink she pumped up from the inky beyond.
Nothing was left to do but to at last abscond.
In a dash for the door, Thumper pulled his peepers from her. The theater-crowd screamed jeers and hellfire, but the chanting cultists — the hooded humans, including Mr. Chambreux — stayed entranced by Delsinerr’s grace. Or maybe they was deep in the worship of that tentacled thing coming outta the vortex.
He grabbed Cherry and drug her off the stage. His mind worked clearly now. Delsinerr was there, but her aura was gone, and reality felt real to him. Cherry was stiff as a board though, until he got her away and she rag-dolled in his arms. She still got her white-girl notions caught in the eternity where Delsinerr’s face should be.
The last thing Thumper saw as he got Cherry outta the theater was them tentacles wrapping around both Delsinerr and Mr. Chambreux. Both were dragged into the vortex before it shut.
Then all was silent and still like a birth. Ain’t nothing matter but this moment.
The movie theater was empty of those demon-beasts, and the hoodened cultists — the humans — all exchanged dark glances like sober fiends. The door to the theater closed behind Thumper. He carried Cherry out through the lobby onto the street into the cool night air of the city of Bangor.
“Where are you takin’ me?” Cherry asked, still ashen and limp as spent dingdongs.
“Wherevuh you want, that’s yo’ choice, baby,” Thumper said. He was glad to put her down, cuz he ain’t know till now that his back could take carrying her this far. She asked him to get her dog from her apartment then to her daddy, who lived above a moving company’s offices — her daddy owned the jawn.
That sounded like a job Thumper could do, and sooner or later, somebody from Maine was gonna move to somewhere in Maryland. Then at last, he would see home again.
He took a deep breath of the steamy petrichor blowing by, fresh and fast. His bladder neck be bugging all of a sudden, but he did abide. Swarming with stars, the transcendant sky opened up with a blessed bang of thunder, and thin rain rapped upon him with a chill of perpetual reality. It felt good as grandma’s hugs. Thumper never walked as free as he did right now.

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter 3

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter Three

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

Chapter Three: Vaccination

This time, Mason sought out Buck, who lived with Lem in that dead end at the end of a corridor on the rig. This rig was built for more workers than there were — lots of the job had been automated in recent years — so whole wings were no longer used. Mr. Chow said they could bed down wherever they wanted. Buck and Lem chose a corridor that dead-ended at a disused room. They claimed everything from the intersection with another corridor to the dead-end, and they used the extra room for storage. The dead-end was curtained off with sheets and done up with extra mattresses, pillows and space heaters.
“Knock, knock, guys,” Mason said. He tapped the sheet being used as a curtain. A mat lay right there, like a welcome mat but Mason knew Lem well enough to know it’s real purpose — there were peanut shells under the mat. Lem and Buck stepped over the mat when coming in and out of the dead-end. If anybody snuck in when they were gone, the shells would be smashed under the mat, and they’d know someone had been there without permission. Mason stepped over the mat.
“C’m’in!” Buck said.
“Unless’n you is Jean or them!” Lem said. His voice was pinched and tense — Lem was always hostile to the other roughnecks, whom he was certain conspired to steal from him at every turn. Back when he drank, he stayed convinced they were stealing his liquor. That was true, they did steal liquor. That was a constant source of conflict on rig. Cigarettes too. Lem was unreasonably paranoid about it though.
Mason opened the curtain and came in. The smell of shower sandals and recent soap filled his nostrils. Buck and Lem stood there like Mason had walked in on them doing something wrong.
They were swordfighting in the center of their living space.
Their soft dicks dangled afront them, but it was clear they had been swinging ’em at each other just a second ago. Both men’s hips were angled towards each other, underwear around their ankles. Wry grins popped up on both Buck and Lem. Both men’s bare asses were still dappled with shower water.
Mason stopped short, unable to tear his eyes from their bared crotches. Buck’s cock was huge, and Lem’s was knobbly and darker-skinned than the rest of him. Actually Buck’s was darker than the rest of his skin as well.
Lem’s cock was not as big as Buck’s but seemed bigger cuz Lem was rangy and ropy-muscled. His cock was as thick as his biceps, and Lem was dense like he had crammed a more muscular man inside of himself. Lem and Buck both held back laughter when Mason saw them standing there, dicks in hand, mid-thwack upon each other.

They both stood up on their chagrin. Buck’s cheeks turned burgundy underneath his unshaved beard. He chuckled, which made his pecker jiggle and his pecs flex. He was meaty and thick all over, but Lem was dark-skinned and taut from head to toe, his muscles dotted with bluish-gray tatttoos, and he had only a smattering of ebon body hair on his sternum.

Mason chuckled. “Who’s winning the swordfight, gentleman?”
“Me!”
“Nah, me! Mah hog wrecked his piglet!”
That chagrined look remained on both they faces, then Buck grinned at the same time Lem scowled, and the both them slapped dicks at each other at the same moment.
Detente broken, the swordfight resumed. Buck and Lem battled dick to dick, both of them leaning their upper halves back and their lower halves forward to get better leverage. It was unclear what the point of the competition was.
“Gotcha, Buckums-!”
“Ow, don’t hit mah balls!”
“Whiteboy, yo’ ugly dick best surrenduh, or I’mma treat it harsh-“
“You narsty, Lem!”
“You smell like velveeta, hillbilly!”
They both said more, but that was all Mason caught. He grinned, forgetting that he came here to see if Buck had his vaccination records — he was supposed to send it to the company in advance, but Mason got notice that Buck never did.
In any case, Mason was distracted by the smell of their muscles and the sight of their dicks smashing into each other. They eventually stopped because Lem got Buck in the balls hard again, and Buck doubled over both laughing and protesting. Lem crossed his arms over his chest.
“You hillbillies is weak as water, Buckums,” Lem said. His muscles tensed up when Lem kicked, trying to get Buck in the balls, but Buck dodged. Then Buck tackled Lem — but he didn’t knock him down, he toppled him then caught him and swept him up in his great bearish arms. Lem squealed and squirmed. “Git off me, hillbilly!”
It was clear Buck wasn’t gonna let go — Buck told Mason he was a wrestler in high school, and it seemed he wanna wrestle again — but then Lem wriggled, and Buck nearly knocked over a layer of blankets pinned up to the wall. He put Lem down to fix it.
“Damn it, Buckums!” Lem said. “You knockin’ shit down again!” He scowled, scratching his naked balls, and watched Buck fix the blanket. Buck’s back muscles looped and arched as he re-tacked the blanket to the wall. The walls and floors were icy cold, so they had covered everything with layers of insulation.
When Buck was done, the dead-end had been silent for some time. Buck and Lem both turned to Mason, both of them just now realizing they didn’t know why Mason had come here. Their cocks dangled like disused warclubs between their muscled thighs.
Mason said, “I was hoping you had your vaccination records, Buck.”
Buck stone-faced. “Mah what?”
“Your vaccination records? You were supposed to send them in to the company health director before you got here,” Mason said. “They sent you a letter about it.”
Buck made a dismissive hand gesture and sound effect. “Flpppt. Whatevuh, Mason, I don’t got that.” He shrugged. “Reckon mah grammaw prolly got that lettuh. I done been got vaccined, I did. I got all mah shots.”
“Okay, well, if you give me your doctor’s name, I can get the records sent up,” Mason said.
Buck nodded. “Okay, yeah. I’ll get mah grammaw to call you.” He wagged his dick in Mason’s direction. “Cain I do a complaint? Lem got a dirty dick-“
“Nuh-uh, I cleans it. I’mma do a complaint ’bout Buckums’s dick. Honky-ass whiteboy hillbilly got weak-dick syndrome, I seen that. He fat-“
“Shut ya old fool mouth, Lem, you don’t know nuttin’ ’bout whiteboy dingdong,” Buck said. Then he glanced at Mason. “Sawry, Mason, suh, we’s j’st playin’ ’round.”
“I’m not a supervisor,” Mason said. “I’m just the medic. Swordfight as much as you want. As long as you don’t get hurt, it’s none of my business.”
But they both sat down sheepishly anyway, and Buck motioned for Mason to do likewise. Their living area was a mess of pillows, blankets and mattresses. Mason sat behind Buck. “You want a massage?” he asked softly, speaking into Buck’s big cauliflowery ear — Buck was an amateur boxer, so his nose was crooked and his ears were fatly exploded.
“Hell yeah,” Buck said with a wrinkle of that fisty nose.
As Buck and Lem got to talking about their upcoming leave back in town, Mason’s hands spread over Buck’s back. Buck leaned forward. Mason kneaded his powerful muscles, and he leaned in to smell the fading-soap and recent-sweat smell clinging to his skin. Buck was so tall that Mason’s face squashed into the middle of his back, which was dappled with sweat. Mason was glad to taste the salt of his manhood, trickling into Mason’s mouth.
“We gonna have enough money to live it large this time, sweah to God,” Lem said. “That lightskin lady at the Manor? I am goin’ aftuh her like you wouldn’t believe — she wanted me — she was into it-” Lem was worked up and stood, holding holey white briefs in one hand like he forgot to put them on. He was excited about leave, which both he and Buck were up for next week.
Buck rolled his eyes. Mason was rubbing his back, so he couldn’t see Buck’s face, but he sensed it. Lem was animated as if he was arguing about this with somebody, but nobody had challenged it. He wagged his finger like he was counting off points, but he didn’t count anything. He also seemed to have forgotten he was naked, and his cock gaggled up and down as he gesticulated.
“She said I was handsome, she said I looked like that actor Idris Elba, damn you know she want this nigga dick, Buckums! You know it!” He wagged his finger well above Buck’s head. “She woulda gived me a freebie if that madam wasn’t there, she woulda, she said it, and I sensed it,” Lem said. “I got nigga sense on that. She don’t see lotta black American niggas, and you know she don’t want no Haitians, you know that, Buck-“
Buck sighed, making his chamberous chest billow beneath Mason’s grasp. “Shuddup, Lem.” He had a solid layer of muscle beneath his skin, and Mason’s massage made the whole mass move up and down.

Mason had to chuckle. Lem had been ranting about Haitians since back when he drank. Lem got persnickety about Haitians. And Nigerians. And Brazilians, Pakistanis, Lebanese… Lem had notions about every nationality, and he did express them often and vituperously. The video about respecting diversity on rig had obviously not sunk into Lem’s skull, even after rewatching it a hundred times.

“Nobody want Haitians. They’s longskin niggas, longskin, and you can’t trust them none. You know about that, Mason?”
“I-” Mason said from around Buck’s back muscles. They were solid and warm, moist with sweat and stretching, flexing beneath his grasp. Fine hair imperceptibly covered most of his back, but the hairs became black and coarse down at the small of his back and up atop his shoulderblades.
Buck blurted out. “Wait, nah, don’t say nothing, Mason, don’t get him started-“
“Longskin niggas-“
“Lem don’t like Hayshuns, reckon. He got notions ’bout ’em,” Buck said. He sniffled. “I ain’t had the best ‘xperiences wit’ ’em mahself.”
“She was givin’ me looks ’bout it, you know how they do, you know it, Buck, man, Mason, shit, a Haitian was going aftuh her — he had the money, you see, and she gotta go away wit’ him,” Lem said. He paused and whistled. “She was aftuh me, she said we woulda coulda snuck away if her madam stepped out. She touched mah dick anyway. You saw her, Buckums, the chick-“
“Yes, I know, Lem you been goin’ on ’bout her,” Buck said. He leaned back so Mason could reach around him and massage his chest. His hefty pics twitched at the touch of Mason’s fingertips. Mason massaged him gently at first, but Buck was so thick he got more and more vigorous until he sensed that Buck liked the sensation. Buck remained naked, his cock flopping between his thighs. Squashed between Buck and the pillow-clad wall, Mason moved to sit beside him and kneaded the meat of Buck’s torso.
Lem got out one of his gentleman’s interest magazines. “Lemme show you, lemme show you, hillbilly, she got tits like you wouldn’t believe!” he whisper-shouted, lest Mr. Chow come tell them to keep it down. Lem acted like somebody had doubted him, as he showed off the pictures of a woman with marvelous tits, the same as that lightskin prostitute working in town.
Mason wasn’t particularly interested, but he nodded along anyway. Buck did likewise. Mason’s hands worked up and down Buck’s broad chest. Lem was off on a tear about the woman in the magazine.
It was funny, Mason knew Lem back when he drank, and Lem drank a lot. He quit last year. Mason thought Lem’s eccentric behavior and wild tangents were due to his drinking, but after a year of sobriety, Lem was just as off the wall as ever. Maybe even more so. Maybe the liquor had kept him calm back before.
He spoke more clearly, that was all, less slurring of his words. Lem remained as Lemmish as ever.
“This bitch would fall in love wit’ me if we met, and you know I would put it to her good. She look like she know things, you get me, you can feel it coming outta her,” Lem said vociferously, like he must convince Mason and Buck of what he was saying. Despite that, he didn’t even show the magazine to them, he just kept talking about the woman in it. He seemed to have forgotten that he started talking about her to compare her to the prostitute at the Manor (a brothel in town where the roughnecks got leave) but now was talking about her in her own right. “I wouldn’t settle down wit’ her though. She don’t look like a one-man kinda woman, bet on it. Believe that, Buckums! Mason. She be out flippin’ her pussy at any man with dollahs to spare! Believe that!”
“Hey, uh…” Buck blushed under his scruffy beard. Ignoring Lem’s rant, he glanced down at his dick, which twitched like it wanna get hard. He kept his voice low but audible under Lem’s flimsy rant. Buck sucked on his lower lip. “Hey, Mason.” His cheeks bright red beneath his bristly beard, he glanced at Lem, who stopped his jeremiad midway through — or hell, his rants were endless, there was no midway, but he paused it anyway. Buck whispered, “I needta get a nut off.”
In any case, Lem heard that and scumbled on a face like he wanna get a nut off too. “You still jack a nigga off, Mason? I could use a nut mahself-“
“Aw, sheeit, I knewed you was gonna suggest that. Don’t do it, Mason, it’s nasty-“
Mason blurted out, “Yes! I mean, okay, I… I’ll do whatever, whatever you guys want.” He blushed, as the both them guffawed. Mason would enjoy jacking off with either or both of them. It wouldn’t be the first time with either of them as well, though he wasn’t sure if either of them knew it — had Buck told Lem he’d been jacking off with Mason in the clinic? Had Lem told Buck he’d done the same with Mason on previous rigs? Neither of them seemed shocked Mason would volunteer.
Buck said, “Don’t nevuh agree to nothing from Lem wit’out askin’ what it is, Mason. I tells him no mahself, I do. He don’t feel good. Like humpin’ a coral reef.”
Lem had a standing offer — if a man jacked him off one time “wit’ full throat” — swallowed his cum, basically — Lem would let him “hump off” on him bunches — Lem spent years prison, so he knew about all this stuff. “Humping off” was when you rubbed your dick on his back, in the crook of his elbow or between his thighs.
That was a new offer from Lem now that he was sober, it seemed, he never offered that on previous rigs. Or maybe he did, just not to Mason.
But Buck and everyone else on rig had refused. Nobody wanna taste Lem’s “nasty old black pecker” (Buck’s words), and Lem’s body was rough and not big and squishy like Buck’s. Lem was a “sandpapery chimney of a homeboy” (also Buck’s words).
Mason, however, jumped right to it. He blushed. “I get horny a lot, the idea of humping Lem off… I can handle swallowing some cum. I’ll do it.” He blushed harder, as Buck laughed and Lem clapped his hands with glee. Men looked at him weird if he said he swallowed cum willingly, so Mason pretended to be more reluctant about that than he really was.
In fact, Mason liked the taste, the consistency and the experience of it, and he was eager to hump off on Lem’s muscles. He didn’t mind Lem being too taut for it to feel proper, as Buck described it.
Lem’s body was wiry, like he was naturally skinny but forced by a hard life to cram muscles on. His thighs were firm and corded-muscle, and his cock was soft as he swaggered over to Mason.
“Ah hot shit,” Buck said and clapped his hands. “You really gonna swaller nut? Is that a medic’s job? They must pay a lot, hoss!”
But before Mason could say no, Lem gripped Mason’s head with one hand and slipped his limpness into his mouth. Lem’s other hand held onto that gentleman’s interest magazine. His cock tasted warm and musty, salty with sweat cuz this dead-end was warm from the space heaters they had put up all over, and the blankets and pillows provided ample insulation. Lem had showered recently, and his body remained moist and vaguely soap-scented.
That taste flooded Mason’s mouth, as Buck whooped and hollered, then got interested in peering at the magazine over Lem’s shoulders.
“Aaaah, shit, nigga…” Lem let out a moan, though his dick wasn’t even hard yet. Mason’s tongue wrapped around it and explored the soft shaft.
Lem’s cock began twitching and firming up, even before Mason swallowed it as deep as he could — that’s cuz Lem’s attention remained on the woman in the magazine. His meat was ready to race to erection, which it did quick once Mason got started. He slathered spit up and down Lem’s throbbing shaft. Lem murmured and grumbled into the magazine above Mason’s head.
As Mason slurped on Lem’s knob, he heard Lem and Buck arguing — Buck wanna look at the magazine and get hard, but Lem was focused on a picture of a black woman. Buck could only see the opposite page from his angle, and that was only advertisements, no women at all.
That didn’t slow Buck down though. He flopped his massive limpness onto Mason’s face, but Mason stayed focused on Lem’s veiny shaft, so Buck’s dick battered him softly on the nose and cheek. Lem’s pecker was hard as iron now, and it jabbed down Mason’s throat. Lem was harsher about it than Buck, not gentle at all, not that Mason was complaining. Lem treated Mason’s throat like a fleshlight, forcing his cock down until Mason choked on it and gripped Lem’s wiry asscheeks for support.
Soon, the precum flowed outta Lem’s dick, and Mason swallowed every drop. It was salty and gooey in a good way. Both Mason’s hands stayed gripped onto Lem’s asscheeks as though he was trying to push Lem away, but he instead held Lem in place, as Lem pounded — gently but firmly — at Mason’s mouth. His balls slapped at Mason’s chin. His sac wasn’t as hairy as Buck’s, and it was clean because he had showered moments ago, but his balls were hefty and swollen like Buck’s.
“Damn, Mason…” Lem murmured. His cock pulsated in Mason’s throat, and he now had both hands on the magazine, so he didn’t hold Mason’s head in place. That meant Mason could move up and down on the shaft at his own pace.
Because Mason’s hands were on Lem’s asscheeks, he felt Buck sidle up behind him — tired of being unable to see the “purdy ladies” in the magazine, Buck got behind Lem and rubbed his soft dick on Lem’s hard asscheeks.
“Eww, Lem, you feel like pavement, sheeit,” Buck murmured with a laugh. His dick rubbed the sweaty crack of Lem’s ass though. Buck kept his eyes trained on the magazine.
Though Lem grumbled, he didn’t complain about Buck humping himself hard on Lem’s ass. They did that — before Mason started jerking Buck off, Buck and Lem would hump each other here in the dead-end to get a nut off. They’d worked out a way to do it, Buck laying on his back, Lem “fucking” between his thighs, which made Lem’s wiry torso rub up and down on Buck’s dick. With a magazine held between their heads, they could both get off that way with minimal mess (they had a system of towels in place to catch their cum). It wasn’t too satisfying, but it worked.
Now that Buck and Lem were both hard though, Mason could switch back and forth between them both, as Buck let his erect cock ram between Lem’s thighs. Lem’s ballsac rubbed on his dick, which gave it a sour flavor that Mason gobbled down. Lem grumbled about Buck’s position too — Lem do be grumbling — but he ain’t try and stop Buck. Mason swallowed Buck’s dick as deep as he could, then moved back to Lem’s, then back to Buck’s.
Since Mason enjoyed it, he wasn’t especially trying to get them both off quickly. But Buck’s younger body got real close quick, and Mason swallowed his hillbilly cock to the root, or as close as Mason could get anyway, as Buck’s meat was too long and too thick. Since Mason was focused on throating deep, he was surprised when a jolt of hot jizz filled his mouth, then overflowed down his chin.
“Aww, heckfire!” Buck closed his eyes and let out a long cringing sound, his dick still poking out between Lem’s thighs and into Mason’s mouth. A fat jizzum splurted into Mason’s throat and spilled out down his chin.
“No fair, hillbilly,” Lem murmured. He pulled Mason’s head off Buck’s cock, which Mason didn’t resist. Lem moaned when his dick thensank into Mason’s cum-filled mouth.
Buck scoffed and moaned as well, still cumming, spewing his nut all over Mason’s face. He stroked himself off with both hands. Great ropy jets of jizz flowed over Mason’s cheeks and shoulders, while Lem gripped his head once more and plowed down his throat.
Before Buck was even done cumming, Lem was shooting his load too, his wiry old-man dick spraying a thick wad into Mason’s belly. Mason groaned but swallowed all he could before his need for air caused him to expel Lem’s dick, so Lem’s last couple cumwads joined the soup on Mason’s face.
“Hell yeah, whiteboy,” Lem said. Buck chortled behind him.
They both sighed, their dicks now limp in front of them. Lem had dropped the gentleman’s interest magazine onto the pillow on the floor, and some of the cum dripped off Mason’s face onto the pages.
“Damn! You makin’ a mess, Mason,” Lem said. He picked up the magazine and wiped jizz off the page with the beautiful black woman. Lem got on his knees to put the magazine away, while Mason stood behind him.
“He gonna hump ya back now, Lem,” Buck said with a chuckle and a chortle. He delicately wiped his pecker clean with a paper towel. “You gonna get whiteboy spooge all ovah ya head.”
“Shuddup, Buck! He ain’t a hillbilly, so it won’t be as nasty as yo’n,” Lem said. He drank from his flask of apple cider — he felt strongly that soft apple cider replaced his desire for alcohol. Drinking from a flask helped, he said.
It wasn’t true, but he felt it should be and maybe one day would be, if he thought it often enough. So he drank soft cider as though it forgot to ferment. After smacking his lips, he flexed his arms, which pushed his shoulderblades into making a little valley in the center of his back.
“Go fo’ it, Mason. Be quick,” Lem said.
Mason slid his dick into that valley, and he humped it up and down, already rock-hard. Lem stayed like that, kneeling with his arms flexed. He ain’t pay much mind to Mason, he simply directed Buck to clean up puddles of cum where it had spilled.
Holding back a chest-cringing moan, Mason’s cock firmed up the rest of the way immediately, his dick ramming into the valley of Lem’s shoulders. Mason was already mostly hard, so it didn’t take much to get him going. Lem kneeled there like nothing was happening, he was just flexing his arms for practice. Mason slid his dick back and forth, embarrassed at first cuz both Buck and Lem got quiet, so the only sound was Mason’s slightly panty breaths. Mason’s arms gripped Lem’s taut biceps.
Then Buck got to talking about leave — he had his own notions about the women at the brothel in Kaskatuk — and Lem gradually ignored Mason. That meant Mason could focus on the firm muscles of Lem’s back.
He’d been a roughneck for decades. Lem worked at every kind of oil rig, work camp, lumber mill and remote mine in North America (he claimed), plus a couple even further abroad. He wasn’t the meaty kind of muscular like Buck, he was more firm and padding-free, solid as petrified wood. Buck’s back would be squishy, but Lem’s was hard, and his shoulders squeezed Mason’s dick.
The pearly white prejizz that spewed from Mason’s cock spread over Lem’s back. It followed the natural arcs and curves of Lem’s flexed muscles, and it dripped down to his asscrack. Mason’s fingers spread over the firm mounds of Lem’s biceps. He humped stronger with every pump of his hips, his dick ramming up Lem’s spine and nape to get him in the back of the head.
But Lem was copacetic about it. “You shoulda made that deal with Waymond, Buckums,” he said.
Buck scoffed and sucked on his teeth. He eyed Lem suspiciously. “I ain’t givin’ up all mah porno, Lem.”
“You don’t need porno if you got Mason jerkin’ you off,” Lem said. He and Buck both erupted in chatter about the canceled deal with Waymond — porno for cigarettes, basically, with some side deals about food in the mess hall, potato chips in the barracks, Waymond’s hot sauce and a safety manual that wasn’t technically porno but did have a debatably hot woman washing contaminants off her body while respecting diversity. It was a complicated transaction, which Buck had turned down.
Mason wasn’t all that interested by it, but he didn’t mind how it made Lem animated. Lem’s back flexed as he argued with Buck, who waved him off and did pushups in the center of the dead-end. Mason closed his eyes, hands roaming all up and down Lem’s shoulders, arms and his chest. When Mason leaned down to tweak Lem’s nipples, it made Lem’s pecs ripple.
That was when Mason shot his wad into the creamy soup already congealing on the back of Lem’s head. Mason gasped, unsure at first if Lem even realized he was cumming, as a fat wad of jizz spurted up to his scalp. Most of it landed in a thick puddle on Lem’s neck and shoulder. “Awwww…” Mason tried not to make a sound, but it felt good to resist, and pleasure coursed through his veins. His knees went weak.
“It was a good deal, hillbilly!” Lem snapped at Buck. Cum smeared down his chin and his collarbone, which he ignored.
A long chest-rattling moan came outta Mason, as his final cumwad spurted into the puddle he had already made. It dripped down Lem’s back, which remained flexed, his arms up, like he had forgotten why he was doing that. Mason let his erection slip into Lem’s armpit, the coarse hairs of which provided friction and made Mason bite his lip, the sheer bliss overwhelming him and making his whole body shudder.
Lem looked crossly down at his bare chest covered in Mason’s jizz and also his fingers. Lem shrugged. “You done, Mason?”
Mason nodded. His cheeks turned red, and his soft cock flopped off Lem’s back. Lem grabbed a washcloth to wipe himself off, and Mason tucked his cock away. He immediately resumed lecturing Buck about the deal with Waymond, which Buck shrugged off. Buck was smoking a cigarette and seemed to have eyes for nothing else at the moment.
“You guys have fun on your leave,” Mason said, his voice breathless and thready. “And I’ll be here if you renew your contracts. I hope you do.”

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter 2

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter Two

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Mason went to the kitchen after ten bells. Dinner was done then, but there were usually snacks available until they ran out. Mason went to make himself a sandwich and bring it to his clinic. He’d eat that before bed, or maybe first thing in the morning so he didn’t have to get up for breakfast.
Salami, sliced onions, lettuce, mayonnaise and mustard. For some reason, there were eight varieties of mustard in the fridge. Mason used two of them.
He saw Buck outside the clinic, having just knocked — and presumably not noticed the handwritten sign on the door — be right back, wait five minutes. Buck looked like he was embarrassed to be seen here.
“Hey, uh, I’s wonderin’ if’n you gots eyebooproefen,” Buck said. With all the holler in his accent, it took Mason a second to understand what he was asking for. Then he saw the hungry look in Buck’s eyes, aimed at the sandwich, and Mason sighed. He both wondered if and hoped that Buck was here to get jacked off again.
“Yeah, yeah, c’mon in. What hurts, Buck?” Mason said as he opened the clinic door. He went in, and Buck plopped his giant frame down on the bunk. He kept his eyes on the sandwich.
And those eyes stayed on the sandwich. Mason cleared his throat, but Buck looked fixated. Buck had made it clear on this rig that he was always hungry, that he wanted whatever leftovers were available, and that the food was insufficient. It had become clear that no amount of food would be sufficient.
“What hurts, Buck?” Mason asked again. “And do you want my sandwich?” He pointed to the sandwich on his desk. Mason felt a curious urge to watch him eat. He’d seen Buck eat in the mess, and there was something strangely arousing about it.
Damn was Buck good at it too! He really shoveled it in. The mess made three lines of food — Indian, Middle-Eastern and Western. The cooks were mostly Portuguese, but they catered to a diverse crowd. Buck was the only one who went through all three lines. Last week, Mason saw him eat a croque monsieur tagine wrapped up in a garlic naan.
“Ah, I mean… hell yeah,” Buck said. He ran his fingers through his mullet. “You don’t want it?”
Mason shook his head. “I only made it cuz I planned earlier on eating it. Then after I made it… I’m not hungry anymore,” he said. Then, yet again, he said, “What hurts?”
But Buck was fixated on the sandwich, which he grabbed and ripped off a huge bite of — his giant frame meant he had a giant mouth that took giant bites. Mason was impressed. But Buck seemed to have forgotten he didn’t come here for a sandwich.
“What can I do for you, Buck?” Mason asked between bites. He had to ask it a couple times before Buck heard. Mason had a feeling that, if he stood too close to Buck, he might get chomped on along with the sandwich.
“I was hopin’ fer some eyebooproefen,” Buck said around mouthfuls of sandwich. Crumbs dropped to the floor.
“What hurts, Buck?” Mason asked, more insistently this time. “I can’t give you anything without writing something down in the logbook.”
“I got pain!” Buck said. “Mah shoulders is sore as the dickens! Feels like I nogginned up onna pile of crawdads this morn’, hoss.”
Mason flattened his nose. He grabbed a pen and the logbook. “Okay, well, Buck… I recognize some of the words in there. Your shoulders hurt.”
“Yep. I done all the auntychambuh stuff yestuhday, tha’ss why. Habibby was sick, so I gots to do it all. Hard on the shoulders, it is, reckon.” He stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth. “And I’s hungry. You cain’t get me more food, right? Cuz I’m bigguh than the li’l fellahs, reckon I oughta get more suppuh.”
“That’s not how it works, I don’t have any authority over the mess hall,” Mason said. He filled out the logbook, then gave Buck a dose of ibuprofen and a little plastic cup of water. Buck downed the pills. “Do you want me to rub your shoulders?”
Buck nodded a little too eagerly. He leaned into it, and the look in his eyes suggested to Mason he wanted to get jacked off again. That was probably why he came here in the first place. His shoulders were probably sore, that wasn’t just an excuse, but that came with the roughneck life. Buck probably brought his own over-the-counter stuff and maybe some black-market stronger stuff. Lem definitely got opiates on the downlow, Mason thought. He seemed like the type. In his experience, most roughnecks did, and essentially all of them over fifty years old did.
So if Buck wanted stronger painkillers, he could get them one way or another. The real reason he came to see Mason was cuz he wanted Mason’s soft fingers to touch him again.
Mason wanted that too, and he eagerly got behind Buck. Buck was so tall that Mason was dwarfed by his broad back, the muscles of which were so thick they looked painful.
Sweat clung to the groove between Buck’s shoulderblades. Mason’s fingers gripped Buck’s meaty back, and he kneaded the flesh. As Mason rubbed the firmness of his shoulders, Buck let out a low lingering moan, his muscles turning to hot silly-putty in Mason’s fingers.
Settling onto his knees on the bunk, Mason got a good angle to massage Buck’s back. Mason’s legs splayed to each side, and he basked in the heat radiating off Buck’s flesh. Soon Buck seemed on the verge of sleep, and Mason kept working his muscles softly. Mason often massaged the roughnecks on the rig — and most often, his massages turned to at least handjobs. That was why Mason was such a popular medic.
A noose made of barbed wire was tattooed on Buck’s back, running up the length of his spine. The loop of the noose ended right where Buck’s beefy asscheeks began. The tattoo was dotted with the coarse black hairs of Buck’s back. “Is this tattoo significant?” Mason asked.
Buck groaned from the massage. He half-nodded, half-yawned. “Got it when I left prison,” he said. “It’s a Bloods thang.”
“Bloods?”
“The gang,” Buck said. He mimed shooting a gun. “The homeboy gang. I ain’t a shooty-homeboy feller, mind you, I keeps the peace, Mason. I was in the Bloods in prison though, and when I got out, they lemme get the noose on my back. It means I’s allowed to pledge the Bloods in any cell block.”
“What’d you do to earn that?”
Buck wrinkled his nose.
“Oh, if you don’t wanna say, it’s…”
Buck shrugged. “T’wouldn’t be propuh.” He leaned back like he forgot Mason was behind him, and Mason was almost crushed by his weighty body. But he didn’t lay back all the way, just enough to put some heft on Mason. Mason’s hands wandered to Buck’s chest, groping and rubbing his now-relaxed pecs and hairy belly. “Will you, uh, massage mah dick again?” Before Mason could answer, Buck said, “I got a stiffy today fer real, it wouldn’t go down. It’s cuzza that calendar in the Porchagees room, the calendar with a hot babe. I hadta walk by it like a hunnert times today.” He chuckled, making his back bounce up and down on Mason’s lap. “I was waitin’ fer the Porchagees to leave the room so’s I could nab some food outta there. They got stacks of anchovies, Mason! Stacks!” He whistled. “The Porchagees lady on the calendar be callin’ to me though. They got purty ladies in Portugal, reckon. Do they speak English?”
“No. They speak Portuguese,” Mason said. His hands stretched down to Buck’s workpants, which Buck raced to unzip. Buck fished out his own massive shaft, soft but slightly stiff, like it was trying to find something to point at. Buck was so tall Mason had to stretch to reach it, since Buck was still leaning back and pinning him to the wall.
“If’n you could put ya mout’ on it again, it’d be most ‘ppreciated,” Buck said. He finally realized Mason was pinned behind him and lifted his chest up. Mason scooted out to the other side of the bunk, away from the wall, while Buck lay on his back. His dick stuck straight up like a sundial. Even stretched out on the bunk, Buck was too tall to fit. That was why he lived in the dead-end with Lem — Buck didn’t want to cram his big-ass body into a bunk at night. Him and Lem slept on the floor on a pile of mattresses and blankets.
Without another word, Mason dropped his head and licked Buck’s giant shaft, which rocketed straight to full erection. It pulsated against his tongue. Mason’s hands roamed up his chest, making Buck’s powerful pecs ripple. Memories of that Portuguese woman on the calendar thrummed through Buck’s muscles.
“Aaaah…” Buck sighed. “I j’st don’t cotton to jackin’ off wit’ Lem. Not cuz he’s black, I got no prejudices. But he got hands like sandpaper, Mason. And his lips is dry! Oow-eee! Cain’t pretend he a female for any length of time, fer real!” His hand gently lay on Mason’s head, not forcing it down, just guiding it deeper on his cock.

The hand wasn’t necessary though, as Mason tried to get even deeper than last time. He wanted to taste every inch of Buck’s meat. He stretched his neck and lips as wide as he could manage. Buck grunted, chest tensing, pleasure coursing through him. His veiny shaft throbbed in Mason’s mouth, getting thicker as it fully stiffened.


Unable to breathe, Mason held onto his mouth in position. Spit slobbered down Buck’s rod, lubing up Mason’s hands, both of which stroked his cock too. Mason’s throat struggled to open up more and to breathe as well, and eventually Mason couldn’t help but pull off to take a deep breath. Salty precum coated his lips and tongue.
“Goddamn, Mason… you’s a great medic,” Buck said with a laugh that turned into a moan of desire, as he accidentally and suddenly reached his climax. His voice broke cuz that was unexpected. It was just as much a surprise to Mason, who choked on the first flow of jizz.
A burst of cum flowed into Mason’s mouth, followed by another, great creamy gobs of salty goodness sliding down Mason’s gullet. Buck gasped like he didn’t see that coming, and it made his muscles all flex at once. Another wad of creamy jizz hit Mason’s throat, and it coated his tongue.
“Damn, hoss!” Buck’s chest muscles rippled as his voice broke again.
This was Mason’s favorite part, so he tried to drag it out. His lungs craved oxygen though, and he couldn’t swallow it all. Buck’s bushy pubic hair became soggy with all the cum that overflowed from Mason’s mouth.
It fell limp in Mason’s grip, even as a few drops of cum kept dribbling out. Buck’s thirteen-inch cock flopped meatily left and right in his grip. Buck lay back, arms and legs spread wide, like he got no intention of going back to his barrack. Cum coated both Mason’s face and Buck’s crotch.
Maybe he did want to sleep here. Mason wasn’t supposed to allow it unless it was for medical reasons — because somebody could come in here with a problem, and Buck’s presence would violate their medical confidentiality. But Mason could always make Buck step out.
Before Mason could bring that up, however, he took his own dick out and gave it a few strokes. Buck ignored it.
“Do you mind if I jack off?” Mason asked. “While I play with your cock?” He blushed, glad that Buck seemed uninterested in what Mason was doing now. Buck yawned and nodded.
Mason climbed on the bunk so as to mount Buck’s powerful body. He frotted both dicks together, his rock-hard one and Buck’s much bigger but soft cock. His shaft, ballsac and crotch hair were all soaked in jizz, the rank smell of which wafted into Mason’s nostrils.
“Can I smoke in here?” Buck asked.
Pointing to the vent, Mason shrugged. “Not really. But if you exhale towards the vent, it’ll be okay.”
Buck nodded. He lit a cigarette like he ain’t notice Mason rubbing his erect dick on Buck’s soft one. Mason used one hand to keep both dick’s together, while his other kneaded the muscles of Buck’s chest. Buck sighed and let out a long plume of smoke, aimed at the vent, which sucked up the fumes.
Everyone smoked on the rig, which was actually very well-ventilated, making the smoke largely irrelevant. As long as nobody was currently hooked up to an oxygen tank in here, Mason wasn’t worried about the smoke. There was little chance of a health inspection in the middle of the frozen North Pacific Ocean.
His muscles were rock-hard beneath Mason’s fingers, and his cock was soft as pudding. Mason’s was hard though. Buck’s dick was too soft to really get him off, Mason needed more friction. But it was enough to get him firm and leaking precum down Buck’s already cummy shaft.
“Is it okay if I cum on your chest?” Mason asked.
Buck shrugged. “You gonna clean it off after?”
Mason nodded.
“Fine then.” Buck closed his eyes and puffed on his cigarette. “Try not to get it on mah face.” It seemed he was trying to ignore Mason’s dick. That was fine with Mason, who let out a bit-back moan as he stroked his hard cock along with Buck’s much bigger one. The smell of Buck’s cum was cloying in Mason’s nostrils. His fingers made Buck’s pecs ripple.
He smelled strongly of sweat. The roughnecks on the rig always accused each other of stinking. Mason didn’t like to admit he didn’t mind the smell, cuz they’d make fun of him for it. He kinda liked it. He let out a moan as precum spurted out his knob and into Buck’s crotch.
“You nevuh been to prison?” Buck asked without opening his eyes. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the vent above his head.
“Nope,” Mason said.
Buck finally opened his eyes again, looking down at Mason’s dick throbbing against his own. “Usually only guys who been to prison do this kinda shit. You been workin’ on rigs loads, right? That must be why.”
Mason nodded and let out a moan as he climaxed at last. A shiver of intense pleasure ran up his body, and he kissed Buck right on the meat of his chest muscles. Buck chortled, which made his whole torso tense up beneath Mason’s grip.
Mason’s fat load spurted out, laying a thick rope of cum over Buck’s strapping chest muscles. That was followed by another jissom that sprayed over Buck’s chest and even up to his chin. Buck chuckled throatily. His neck was splatterd with cum.
A long sigh came outta Mason, as he stroked the last of his cum onto Buck’s chest. Mason shot a huge wad, bigger than he was used to. Maybe Buck’s bigness was rubbing off on him. Mason even thought his dick seemed bigger.
When he was done, Mason scurried off to grab a washcloth. He wiped off both his dick and Buck’s, and he dabbed up all the cum he could get to from Buck’s chest and crotch. Buck lay sprawl-out on the bunk as he finished his cigarette.
Finally, they both finished their tasks, and Buck put out his cigarette in an empty can of coke on the desk. He sighed. “Guess I gots to go back to the dead-end with Lem,” he said. “Come see me sometime, Mason. If’n you cain handle Lem bein’ a crazy old coot.”

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter 1

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter One

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

Chapter One: Tusslin’

“Hey, Mason, Mason, hoss, hey,” came a thick-and-raspy, holler-heavy voice in the darkness, so deep you could tell the speaker was tall and big-chested. He sounded like a church bell come to life, and his voice filled the small first-aid clinic, which flooded with light from the corridor when the big man opened the door.
Mason was slow to rouse. He wriggled upright in his little clinic bed, and he leaned back on his elbows. “Huh?”
A heavy knock on the door filled the room. “Mason?” The big man had already opened the door, he just knocked to wake Mason up more fully.
“Huh, what?” Mason sat up. “Oh… Hey, uh, come in.”
The roughneck gotta stoop to come into the first-aid clinic. He was indeed a mighty stack of shoulders. He was Buck Sampson, the biggest worker on Rig E19 in the North Pacific. He was as broad as an ox and as tall as a gorilla, well past six and a half feet, tall enough to duck when he walked through the rig’s doorways. He had a big mane of greasy black curls. His shirtless chest rippled, his body hair clinging to his skin because of a sheen of sweat gleaming in the light that spilled in from the corridor. He exuded heat that Mason could feel, amid the cold barreling in from the harshly lit and unheated corridor.
Buck let the door shut behind him. He turned on the light, and Mason squinted until his eyes adjusted.
“Hey, I got cut,” Buck said in that abyssal and dull voice, words resounding low as a bassoon and dutifully masculine. It made Mason’s heart wobble. Blood poured down Buck’s cheek. “You gots a buttuhfly bandage, hoss?”
Mason yawned and nodded. Only now did he wake up enough to realize Buck was nearly naked, wearing only a pair of scrawny tight-whites that ain’t fit on him. The pouch was overstuffed, the outline of his giant cock clearly visible, pubic hairs protruding around the sides.
And he was bleeding from his head.
“Oh. Oh shit! Oh, oh…! Oh, Buck, hey, c’mon in,” Mason said. He real quick got gloves on and slapped some rubbing alcohol and gauze on the cut in Buck’s forehead. The laceration was shallow. Long, but shallow. Even when Buck sat in the chair, Mason had to stand on his toes to reach Buck’s forehead. Buck’s bare chest muscles rippled as if he had to use them to sit there motionless, first each pec in turn, then his sides and his abs. The smell of his unwashed body hair and salty armpits hit Mason’s nostrils. “What happened?”
“I was tusslin’ wit’ Lem, tha’ss all. J’st a tussle,” Buck said. He shrugged, which made the wound wiggle as Mason tended to it. Buck’s torso rippled again as he laughed. Him and Lem Hammer were bunkmates, bedding down together in a dead-end on the other side of the rig, not in an actual barrack, in a disused dead-end they covered with mattresses, blankets, pillows and space heaters. It was like an adult’s pillow fort, and Mason was secretly jealous that he had to live in the first-aid clinic. Buck’s chuckles reverberated in the tiny room. “We was play-fightin’, and he gots a jagged toenail. Cut me good he did.”

“Oh, shit, boy, he got’cha good. Damn…” Mason said, wiping the wound with rubbing alcohol. The laceration was already clotted, but it had spurted out at first and Buck’s face was coated in crimson, so it looked much worse than it was. Mason wiped off blood with a wetnap to make sure there were no hidden cuts. “He was like a half-inch from slicing your eyeball open, Buck.”


“That toenail deadly,” Buck said. His baritone voice dripped with the glacier-carved hollers of his native West Virginia. “I tol’ him he best cut it.”
“I’ll do it, if he can’t,” Mason said.
“Might could need a chainsaw.”
“That can be arranged.” Mason chuckled. He’d actually trimmed Lem’s toenails for him before, cuz Lem didn’t always do it properly. Mason squeezed the laceration on Buck’s head shut with one hand, then lined up the butterfly bandage with the other. “Hold still.”
Neither of them said anything for a second, as Mason applied the butterfly bandage and stood back to be sure it took. Buck was still too, his giant bloody head looking dour as a dinosaur. He got big features — a big nose that was cattywompus and bulging, like a swollen fist — he was an ex-boxer, that was why, his nose busted up like his cauliflowery ears — big lips, big chin, big ears, big square cheeks — and his damn near seven-foot frame took up lotta room in the clinic. He radiated heat from his hairy chest.
When Mason was satisfied that Buck was bandaged and disinfected, he cleaned more blood off Buck’s face. The meat of his torso was firm like a rock with a pleasantly plump layer of padding atop it — Buck was no bodybuilder. He was as strong as one, but he ate like a champion and wasn’t ripped.
That other guy, Lem, he was ripped. Scrawny though, ropy, he was ripped like a heroin addict on steroids. Buck was ripped like a well-fed horse. Both were strong as tequila though, and both exuded an aura of masculine energy that Mason found invigorating.
“Lem’s a shit, I says he gonna cut me wit’ that toenail, I do be sayin’ that, I do,” Buck said with a low laugh. The motion coulda reopened the wound, so Mason kept a watch on it, but the butterfly bandage took. “Tha’ss the old black feller, you know him, right?”
“I know Lem,” Mason said. “Me and Lem go way back.”
“Oh sheeit, hoss, was he always crazy?”
Mason nodded. He grabbed some babywipes from a container by the desk, and he wiped the last few patches of blood off Buck’s face and his chest. “Used to be crazy and drunk. Now he’s sober. Still crazy.” Mason shrugged and patted Buck on his mountainous bicep. “You got blood on your underpants, you might want to-“

Buck dropped his tight-whites and threw them in the trash. “I got more.” He had a massive thirteen-inch cock, which unfurled from the pouch of his briefs like a length of rope. It was fat and jiggly, and it glistened with the sweat that made it cling to Buck’s powerful thigh.


That was a roughneck thing, getting naked at the drop of a hat. Mason was more shy than that. He did appreciate the male form though, and he liked getting to see the whole thing.
Buck stood there, smears of blood still on his powerful shoulders, cock dangling like a swollen salami. He looked like he thought Mason might have extra underwear for him to wear. Mason did not, and Buck was too big for ordinary underwear anyway — at well over six and a half feet tall, Buck had to shop in a specialty store.
“Oh, okay…” Mason’s eyes opened wide. He used his gloved hands to pick up the tight-whites from the trash and put them in the medical waste bin. “You have a big dick.” He blushed. “Sorry, I just…” He laughed as he dabbed up more of the blood off Buck’s chest. “Bet that thing gets in the way a lot, huh?”
Buck nodded. “I get stiffies all the time too, tell you what!” Buck laughed again. It made the fat of his cock jiggle and sway between his thighs. He flopped it around, making him laugh harder as it picked up speed. He helicoptered it back and forth between his thighs. Then he stopped and sighed. “Seems like I get stiffies mo’ now that I’s on rig and there ain’t no wimmin about. Wussup wit’ that?” He sucked on his teeth. “Mistah Chow think it’s cuzza Confucius!”
With a chortle, Mason said, “I don’t think that’s what he meant.” Mister Chow, the rig boss, did get after the roughnecks recently for general slovenliness, poor behavior and lack of virtue. One point Mister Chow made was that a lack of Confucian values in the West rendered them unable to control their urges.
And a lack of education made Buck unable to understand that complaint.
“I do love a Asian lady,” Buck said. His dick twitched as he looked dreamy for a moment. Then he blushed. “Sorry.”
Mason said, as casual as he could, so he didn’t seem overly eager. “I could help you with it. I’ll massage it, if you want.”
“Really? Aw, yeah, hot sheeit, you do that?” Buck said. He flapped his pecker in Mason’s direction. “Hell yeah. J’st don’t tell Lem. Or anywhom, but ‘specially not Lem. Lem do it too, he steady tryin’-a jack off wit’ me. I tells him he cain get me off any way he want, but I ain’t admire touchin’ his narsty old-feller dingdong. Feels like a sad baseball bat.” His cockfat jiggled as he spoke, bouncing up and down afront his pendulous balls. His eyes lit up like a little boy on Christmas. “You gonna use ya mouf?”
His cheeks burning, Mason nodded. “If you want.” He took off his bloody latex gloves.
“Hell yeah, I done went to prison, Mason. I know ’bout gettin’ off wit’ a feller,” Buck said. “I j’st don’t admire to touch Lem’s wigwam. If’n you tells him, he gonna be comin’ he’uh all the time! All the time like weather! He like that, he is like that, Mason.” He wagged a finger at Mason as if scolding Lem, then he stood up and waggled his dick in front of Mason’s face. He didn’t ram it in though, he just held it near Mason’s lips. The thick shaft felt hot — Buck ran warm and exuded heat like a furnace — even before Mason touched it, he could feel the heat coming off it.
His shaft was wide and long, more than a foot in length and thick like a bicep, not as thick as Buck’s massive bicep, as Buck worked in the drillhead antechamber. Mason didn’t know enough about the rig’s drilling technology to know what that meant, but the men who worked there were the strongest and thickest-bodied.
They didn’t all have massive uncut cocks like Buck though. Mason’s fingers curled around it. He felt Buck’s heart beating through the veins that ran from the shaft to the foreskin, which he pulled back to reveal the head. Buck remained standing, but he leaned back so Mason had to stretch his grip above his head to pull Buck off.
Mason held Buck’s dick in one hand, his heart racing. He loved jacking off — honestly, he preferred jacking off with men like Buck than he did fucking women. Roughecks often came to him to get jacked off on these rigs, but it was never really the ones he wanted.
Until now. Buck was tall and muscular, and his chest rippled at Mason’s touch. Once Mason built up a rhythm stroking him off, Buck sat on Mason’s bunk and leaned back, so Mason had easy access to his massive dick and his low-hanging balls that plopped onto the bunk mattress.
“Aaah, sheeit, I need this,” Buck said. He slitted his eyes shut, sighing though he didn’t get hard yet. His dick flopped in Mason’s hand like over-thick rope. Mason didn’t mind that at all. “I swan, you can’t even mention a woman without me gettin’ a hardon. The less I sees ’em, the more I need ’em.”
In fact, a lot of roughnecks had said something similar. If a man sees random women, clothed, going about their business, he doesn’t get random hardons. If the only women are the beautiful naked ones in his mind, then everytime someone says something, even something as simple as “my sister just graduated college”, he pictures the most beautiful woman ever, wearing nothing but a mortarboard.
As Buck’s eyes serioused up, his dick got firmer and firmer. Even before Mason got both hands on it, it was hard and throbbing. It was easily the biggest dick Mason had ever seen, and he’d seen plenty — men were always going around naked on oil rigs, when they were off-duty. Not so much this rig, cuz it was in the North Pacific and only the rooms, not the corridors, were heated. Few men were as big as Buck’s near seven-foot frame, so they mostly bundled up here.
But Buck was often shirtless and sometimes stripped down to heavy socks and underwear. Mason enjoyed the sight of muscular men, and Buck was a perfect specimen of that. His meaty, non-sixpacked body tasted savory like pizza dough, and Mason slurped sweat off Buck’s pecs. That made Buck laugh like a bear.
“Sheeit, you don’t gotta do that, Mason. I know it must taste baad!” Buck slapped one knee, making his cock jiggle and throb in Mason’s hand. His eyes were still closed.
“Just tryin’ to get you feelin’ good,” Mason said. His tongue ran down Buck’s furry belly, which stank of unwashed roughneck sweat, then all the way to his cock. Buck sucked in his breath when Mason’s tongue hit his shaft, and a long chest-rattling sigh chambered outta Buck’s chest.
The taste was salty and potent, and the veins on Buck’s cockshaft pulsated against Mason’s tongue. Mason licked from root to tip, then let his mouth slurp down to Buck’s apricot-sized balls, each of them heavy and swollen with unreleased cum. Mason took each ball in his mouth and let the hairy sac plop over his face.
“Dang, Mason!” Buck said with a deep chuckle. Mason pulled off his balls and blushed, but Buck kept his eyes closed, which helped Mason avoid feeling self-conscious.
Still kneeling in front of Buck, Mason put his knobtip in his mouth, and he teased his tongue around the piss-slit. His hands went up Buck’s chest to knead his expansive muscles. They all flexed and twitched beneath Mason’s grasp. His pecs were so firm, so strong and palpably hot to Mason’s touch, it made Mason moan with desire, the sound plugged up by Buck’s cock.
Buck sighed and leaned back on Mason’s bunk. “I miss my girlfriend Lucy. She lives back on Long Island. Seems so far away. She might as well be on Mars.”
“You’re from Long Island? I’m from Long Island,” Mason said, his voice garbled by Buck’s cock in his mouth. It tasted warm and hearty, Mason couldn’t get enough, with a faint tinge of saltiness growing stronger by the moment. As soon as he asked his question, he rammed his head down as deep as it could go. Which wasn’t that deep, at least not without a lot of work. It’s not easy to swallow a thirteen-inch cock as thick a muscular man’s wrist, especially since it wasn’t hard yet.
“I’s from West Virginney,” Buck said, eyes opening to watch Mason impale his own throat on his meat. His voice wavered as his cock squeezed into Mason’s throat, sending a wave of pleasure up his body. “But I been livin’ recent-like on Long Island. Tha’ss where’n I got recruited to work he’uh.” He threw his head back and subdued a moan, his hands fluttering above Mason’s head like he wanna throat him down but wouldn’t do it. His rod was rock-hard now, stabbing Mason at the back of the throat.
His shaft was so long that Mason could deep-throat it while also stroking it with both hands. He jerked it right into his own mouth.
As the precum started to really flow, Mason swallowed every drop he could. He let it pop outta his mouth and leak juices over his face. Buck couldn’t help but moan at that. His chest muscles rippled, and his pecs flexed. His arms gripped Mason’s head, then let go.
“You can force it down my throat, if you want,” Mason said softly, his voice moist from the flow of precum coating his tongue and gums. He let some of that gooey mess leak out and down Buck’s veiny shaft. “I’ll swallow it the best I can. It’s hard to force myself though-“
“Ah, sheeit, yeah, you into that?” Buck asked with a look of wide-eyed amazement. Mason nodded without taking the dick outta his mouth. Buck held onto the back of Mason’s head and forced his dick as deep as it could, not stopping even when Mason let out a choke. “Aaaah, goddamn…”
Though both men woulda dragged this out longer if they could, Buck was horny as heckfire — he ain’t barely bust a nut since he got here, cuz Lem was always around and Buck ain’t wanna jack off with him.
Buck’s muscled chest rippled as pleasure coursed through his veins, and the precum poured into Mason’s mouth. The taste was bright and sunny. Mason savored each drop he could get.
He couldn’t swallow it all, though he wanted to. Every couple seconds, Mason pulled off Buck, swallowed a mouthload of it and opened up again. The whole time Buck kept pushing his head back towards his spasming cocktip, eagerly forcing him back down. As soon as Mason could take a breath, he opened up again and went as deep down Buck’s veiny shaft as he could.
That triggered Buck’s sensitive cock. Buck’s baritone erupted in a long, warbling moan, as an initial burst of cum flowed like a fountain down Mason’s throat. He kept going as long as he could, but that wasn’t long, and that first wad kept going even when Mason choked it up. It filled his mouth, then overflowed back into Buck’s crotch.
Cum sprayed over Mason’s face, as he couldn’t help but spit it out to take a breath. Then he went right back to sucking on the tip, and Buck’s second cumwad overflowed his mouth. The taste was wild and clean, intensely salty. Mason loved the taste of jizz — he knew he was unusual in that, most men hated it, but he could swallow his fill and then swallow more.
“Aaah, ooooh…” Buck’s whole body writhed beneath Mason’s mouth.
He slurped it all down, as Buck shot a series of smaller and smaller cumloads — damn did he shoot big ones! Eventually though, just a few more drops dribbled into Mason’s mouth, and then at last Mason let it pop out past his lips.
His face coated in jizz, Mason blushed, the color covered by creamy white. He grabbed a paper towel to wipe himself off, as Buck stood. His cock rapidly softened afronta Mason’s face.
“Sheeit, thanks,” Buck said. “I feel a lot bettuh. You a good medic, Mason. Real good.” He twirled his glistening cock around between his legs, then wiped it off with a babywipe. He tossed it in the medical waste bin and heavyfooted outta the medic room. “Remembuh, don’t tell Lem. He that dumbass nasty trashy old homeboy who stink like a dirty doorknob. Don’t tell him nuttin’.”

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

The Basketball Coach: Chapter 1

You can download this as a free ebook!

Questions, comments, requests or if you want it in another file format, I’ll try to accommodate it, email me at mnmanmacker@proton.me

CHAPTER ONE
Professor Thickman

Avery walked slowly through the hallways of the Forrester Building. The corridor was choked with young men and women — more women than men, though Avery was only interested in the latter. He felt a little old and out-of-place because… well, because he was old and out-of-place.
He was hardly ancient, but he didn’t quite fit in here. He didn’t mind too much, it was just very apparent at times like these. Everyone here was wrinkle-free and skinny, with fine, mussed-up hair — apparently college males weren’t allowed to style their hair these days — and active, charming grins. Avery didn’t remember being anywhere’s near this active when he was their age. These folks spent all day running around, taking classes, then spent all night partying, with tons of interpersonal drama and even some occasional studying. Whereas if Avery went to the bank and spent ten minutes there, he considered that “enough errands, I’m too tired to do anything else today”. He couldn’t imagine going to class and partying and giving a crap about social issues — all in one day.
He went into his poetry class and sat down. As usual, he sat near — but not next to — the seat near the back where Rayshawn Mitchell would be. Rayshawn was a star basketball player on the college team. He was a bedimpled, well-coiffed young black man with a six-pack that was so perfect it was nearly an eight-pack. He had females literally hanging off him most of the time — last time Avery saw him outside of class there was a girl hanging off his arm by the bicep and giggling like she wanted him to think it was gross, even though she was obviously about to suck Rayshawn’s dick.
Avery had to admit he thought Rayshawn was alluring. He was immaculate, almost too perfect, like what an alien might conclude was a handsome man after spending years studying human attractiveness. His cornrows were tight and more symmetrical than seemed possible; his eyes were living pools of brown that gleamed and flashed in the light.
Avery stared into his dreamy eyes as Rayshawn sat down. Then Avery slipped over a couple pieces of paper onto Rayshawn’s desk.
It had an interpretation of “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” by Thomas Gray. Two thousand words, double-spaced, original material not based on or inspired by any of the online essays about this poem.
Avery had written it, and another one besides to turn in for himself. He wrote all of Rayshawn’s papers for him, in exchange for jacking him off. Rayshawn didn’t like to masturbate but he enjoyed spending time away from women sometimes. Avery was ideal from his perspective. Avery licked his dick but didn’t make him watch comediennes or go to political protests.
Rayshawn leaned over to Avery, holding onto the assignment Avery had done for him. “Thanks… Hey, you gotta go see Coach Thickman.”
“What?”
“You gotta go see Coach Thickman. He wanna see you.”
Avery had no idea who that was or why he would want to see Avery, or why Rayshawn would deliver a message about it. Avery furrowed his brow. “Uh… What?”
“Go see Coach Thickman, man. He’s the industrial development teacher,” Rayshawn said, before smiling at a pretty blonde girl who sat down near him. She shivered and giggled at nothing in particular.
Avery sat back and furrowed his brow. He looked it up on his phone. Mr. Thickman was real; he was an assistant basketball coach, and he taught “industrial development”; Avery had no idea what that was.
It turned out to be something like metalshop, possibly. Avery went to see Coach Thickman after Poetry Appreciation. It was in the Forrester Building, but in the basement — which Avery hadn’t even realized featured any classrooms — and it was dark, dim, smelling of steel and oil and mopwater.
Mr. Thickman taught certain blue-collar skills like welding but mainly focused on Foreman Qualifications Engineering — which was apparently a degree program intended for factory foremen. Avery had never heard of it before because it was mainly taken by athletes who needed an easy A and a simple degree.
He was there in a heavy black apron, a helmet, filthy jeans and little else — no shirt beneath the apron. The helmet, with built-in goggles, was to protect himself from the sparks flying from his welding torch. They illuminated the caliginous workshop like a spotlight aimed at his sweat-gleaming cabled shoulders.
Avery yelped and stepped back, surprised both to see him welding and that he did so without a shirt on. The apron protected his chest, but a few bits of spark scorched his bare arms and shoulders.
Oh god those arms… Professor Reginald Thickman — as the sign on the door said, not Coach Thickman — had incredible arms. He was a black man with very dark skin and big fleshy arms. He had a thick barrel chest too. He was entirely unlike the skinny, lanky college boys Avery had been chasing after.
He was exactly what Avery wanted nowadays.
Avery blushed and cleared his throat. Professor Thickman glanced up at him, turned the welding torch off and removed his helmet and goggles. He had a dense mustache that was well-trimmed and a layer of unkempt beard hairs beneath that.
“Yeah?” His voice boomed like fireworks but rasped like sandpaper.
“Uh, hi… I’m… Avery,” Avery said, his voice weak and tinny because he felt small in the cavernous space. He blushed and shrank back from Professor Thickman.
“Sup.” He made a face like he was annoyed Avery hadn’t already finished explaining why he was here.
“I, uh… I heard…”
“You wanna sign up for the Factory Skills Seminar?”
“Umm…. No.”
He grunted, which made his mustache quiver. “Good. Cuz you ain’t…” He looked Avery’s slim body up and down. “I dunno if it’d be a good fit.”
Avery blushed. “I like things that aren’t a good fit.” He came closer to Thickman, who furrowed his big squarish brow.
“What?”
“I’m just sayin’… Sometimes it’s fun to take something big and stick it in something small, even if you have to struggle-“
“Oh.” He rolled his eyes and took off his leather apron, revealing that massive chest with protruding muscles, cradled tightly beneath a sleeveless tee. It had been concealed by the apron until now. It may have been a white shirt at some point, but now it was gray in the areas it wasn’t stained with black grease. “Whatchoo want? I got shit to do, get to the point.”
Avery frowned. He had hit a brick wall — he initially thought Thickman seemed like he might be down to mess around, but he now glared at Avery as though that was not an option. Avery shrugged. “Well, Rayshawn Mitchell said you wanted to talk to me-“
“You? You the guy?”
“Well, I dunno about the guy, but I am a guy-“
“Shut up. You the pervert.” Professor Thickman scowled. He went to the door and slammed it shut. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, which showed off his big beefy pecs, a few hairs poking out from under that rancid wifebeater. He must wear that whenever he welds and never washes it… Avery blushed. Professor Thickman came closer. “I know what you doin’. You ain’t even young, man. You like thirty or somethin’, you got no business goin’ after my boys. They some upstanding men, they gonna marry nice girls and not chase skirt or do the nasty on the DL.”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb wit’ me, I know about you, man. I know.” He looked like he didn’t want to say anything more specific. But he sighed and added, “you jackin’ off my boys. You goin’ after ’em, chasin’ ’em around like they some goddamn hoes and you the playa callin’ after ’em-“
“I’m sorry, what? I don’t chase them around, first of all — and anyway I don’t mess with your boys — first of all — second of all, I mean — they’re not your boys. They’re adults. They can choose to hang out with me if they choose-“
“They choose no.”
“Have you told them that?” Avery quaked. He was so much smaller than Professor Thickman, but his nostrils flared like he might take him on in a fight.
“Yes, I told them that, you little punk. I told ’em in no uncertain terms, but they say you makin’ pers’stent advances. Rayshawn Mitchell say you always beggin’ him for it, you followin’ him around and givin’ him money and shit-“
“Uh, I don’t think so, you big-ass blockhead! Rayshawn Mitchell calls me! He says he needs to get a nut off every night or his dick’ll fall off. Are you gonna swallow his nut at four in the morning? I gave him twenty dollars to buy some flowers for his mama for her birthday, that’s the only money I ever gave him-“
“You do his homework? His… poetry…homework?” Professor Thickman snickered a little.
“I… I help… and…-“
“No more. I put him in that fuckin’ poetry class cuz it’s easy. You can’t do poetry wrong, man. Make him do it. Nobody has ever failed that class.”
“I…”
“What?”
Avery put his hands on his hips. “No. I don’t want him to do it himself! I like his dick!”
“Man! I said leave my boys alone-“
“Rayshawn is twenty-one! He has a baby of his own! He can ask me to get his nut off if he wants! If you don’t like it, tell him to ask you to jack him off-“
“I oughta smack the pansy outta your garden! You are distractin’ my boys, and I don’t like it one bit!”
“You bullying asshole! First of all, Rayshawn is the only basketball player I mess with — is Jamaal Hartlee telling you shit about me? Cuz I told him no, cuz he is a skinny fuck with a dick that is also a skinny fuck, and he’s a douchebag-“
“You don’t mess wit’ Jamaal Hartlee?”
“The only way I’d touch his dick is if it was full of Rayshawn’s dick.”
“And Tommy Smith?”
“Tommy Smith, didn’t he graduate? I got him off last year.”
“Hmmm… You swear you ain’t messin’ around with them all?”
“Just Rayshawn. And he calls me. He says he’s too busy ‘smashin’ pussy’ to read poems,” Avery said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “You make it sound like I hang out in the locker room trying to cop a feel-“
“Well, I don’t much like you messin’ around. The rumors are a distraction for the team, and they spendin’ all they time arguin’ ’bout who got jacked off by you and who don’t do that. You like black boys?”
“No! I like Rayshawn-“
“Then why don’t you leave my boys alone and fuck wit’ the rugby team or some shit? Or lacrosse?”
“Uh, I do! I’m good at seducing jocks, race irrelevant. It’s kinda my thing. I jack off Greg Lambert every day! He’s on the rugby team.” Avery paused. “I didn’t know this school had a lacrosse team. What do they look like? Where do they practice-?”
“They’s intramural. I dunno where they practice. I dunno what they — I never seen ’em.” Professor Thickman frowned. After a long pause, he said, “Look… Just don’t let yo’ mouth distract him from practice, okay?”
“No.” Avery had his hands on his hips. “Your basketball games are a low priority for me. If they’re high priority for Rayshawn, then tell him to appreciate poetry by himself.”
Thickman took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. He was used to bossing around big tough guys, both his students and his players. When he wore this nasty shirt that showed off his arms and he told his “boys” what to do, they jumped to it. They knew he meant business. Professor Thickman did not play around.
So he was annoyed that this fruitcake was so insolent. Thickman frowned again. He shifted his weight between his leather-booted feet.
“You’re not gonna bully me,” Avery said. “Rayshawn is his own man. If he lets you plant your flag in his dick, that’s fine with me. Until then, it’s his dick, it’s my mouth, and it’s happening. Look away if you don’t like it.”
Thickman growled, making that mustache shake. “I ain’t bullyin’ no one. You a grown man. Kinda.” He throatily chuckled.
“Okay, well, I’ve had enough of that. I am a man, you piece of shit. At least I’m man enough to pursue my own life instead of domineering some fucking college boys. You spend all day telling them how to spend their life just so you can go home to what I’m guessing is a sad little apartment all by yourself, microwave a sad little TV dinner, lift your little weights like a fucking convict. Hey, how much furniture do you have that isn’t a bench press?”
“Hey!” Thickman had to hold himself back. If one of his athletes talked to him like that, he’d grab him by the balls and shout some goddamn respect into his throat. “You ain’t gotta be personal-“
“Oh, I’m personal?! You made accusations at me, Thickman! You called me a pervert first! You virtually accused me of being a gropey stalker! Don’t get all self-righteous now.”
“I ain’t mean it like that, okay? Just…” Thickman growled again. “Just quit fuckin’ bitchin’.”
“No.” Avery crossed his arms over his chest.
“Look… I know you… I ain’t mean for this to get all rude. I wasn’t gonna like… I know I got a rough manner, okay? I ain’t threatenin’ you or nothin’. I ain’t a bully.”
“Well, that’s nice.”
“I was gonna let you swing on my dick if you promised to leave Rayshawn alone, I thought, y’know, I was thinkin’ you love black dick-“
“So you were going to do me a favor? Oh well, the great Professor Thickman sees fit to bestow his dick upon me!” Avery threw his hands up and dropped to his knees like he was going to worship him. “Let this day be forevermore remembered as the day Professor Thickman granted the gift of his magnificent manhood-“
“You are such a bitch, dude. You’re as bad as my sister. If you don’t wanna do it, just say no.”
He sighed again and rolled his eyes as Avery grabbed his cock through his paint-splattered jeans. It throbbed beneath his touch. Thickman looked around and sniffled. He didn’t look down, even as his dick twitched beneath Avery’s grasp.
“I didn’t say no,” Avery said. Thickman’s chest muscles flexed beneath his wifebeater, and he lifted his arms up to avoid touching Avery. The smell of his armpits overcame the sulfurous steel and sparks scent that had lingered in the workshop.
“Man… I ain’t… In case you wonderin’, you racist prick, I ain’t a ex-con.” His dick twitched beneath Avery’s touch. He still hadn’t taken his pants off, so it was under the grimy denim of his workpants.
“But you do live in a small apartment by yourself, and lifting weights is your only hobby, and you don’t get why, when you hit thirty-five, your muscles became a turnoff for girls, and you don’t wear enough deodorant-“
“Shut up.”
“No. Do you want me to get you off or not? I promise I won’t come on to Rayshawn, okay? And I’ll make him write his class poem by himself. No help. But he’s going to call me and say he needs me to suck his nut, and I’m going to go, Professor Thickman. I’m going to open wide and swallow every drop I can find. I like him. If some hot chick wanted to skip her, I dunno, jazz recital or whatever, to fuck you, would you tell her no?”

Professor Thickman grumbled and nodded but didn’t answer. He stood there with his arms folded over his chest. He looked hostile, but Avery thought he had technically just agreed to Avery’s offer.


Avery blushed and continued stroking him through his jeans. “You’re really handsome. Would you ever convince Rayshawn to cornhole me?”
Thickman grunted and held back a laugh. “He don’t do that?”
“He says it’s too dirty,” Avery said, shaking his head. He unzipped Professor Thickman’s jeans and pulled his dick out through the fly. Thickman looked away and chewed on his lip. Avery kissed the tip. He flopped it limply over his face. He kept checking up at Thickman’s face, waiting for him to respond, but he just stared at the thing he had been welding — an unidentifiable hunk of metal — and ignored Avery.
So Avery pulled his balls out too, and gave each of them a quick suck. He kept teasing Thickman with his mouth while his hands roamed up, under that disgusting old wifebeater. He tweaked Thickman’s nipples.
Soon his dick twitched where it rubbed against Avery’s lips. Avery spit right on the shaft and then sucked it off. He repeated that a few times, making it as loud as he could. But he still hadn’t actually put Thickman’s cock in his mouth.
“Alright, boy, you just teasin’ me now, that ain’t fair,” Thickman said, voice like an old gravel road. He grunted. “You teasin’. You playin’ games. I don’t like games. Put it in if you gonna put it in.”
“You don’t like games? Aren’t you a basketball coach?”
“Basketball ain’t a game, it’s a war,” Thickman said with a groan. He glanced down at Avery long enough to slap him over the face with his cock. Then he drilled it into Avery’s mouth. He sighed and looked away, glad to have finally got this twerp to shut up. They had both teased each other — Avery had licked his dick and played with it rather than swallow it, just to annoy Thickman, while Thickman had stood there like he was uninterested just to annoy Avery.
Now Thickman’s dick finally firmed up, and they were both eager to get started for real. Thickman refused to admit that though — he tried to look like he was doing a favor for Avery. Once he got his dick ramming in and out of Avery’s throat, he again looked up as though coming up with a lesson plan for tomorrow, like he didn’t have any interest in why Avery choked and loudly gagged on the cockmeat invading his throat.
Avery didn’t mind the choking. He preferred it. As far as he was concerned, if you didn’t struggle a bit, it wasn’t worth it. He throated Thickman down to the root, until his nose nuzzled his pubic hair and that girthy shaft threatened to split his neck wide open.
“Damn, boy, you eager as shit now, huh? I guess I see what Rayshawn sees in ya,” Thickman said with a guilty leer. He watched Avery slurp on his dick as though it had little to do with him, even as his chest heaved and his heart sped up. He didn’t touch Avery’s head except when his dick accidentally popped out, and Avery took a long hoarse breath. Thickman didn’t wait for even a second, he just forced Avery’s head back into place and relentlessly forced his cock back in.
It was so moist and tight, it was unlike any mouth Thickman had had had in years. He had had no intention of sticking Avery in the ass, right up until he heard Rayshawn refused to do so — Thickman wasn’t going to let some punk like that show him up. He was going to have to cornhole this twerp, and he was going to have to do it better than Rayshawn ever would.
“You ready for me to get up in ya guts?” Thickman asked. His voice was throaty and gurgly.
“Oh. God. Yes.” Avery blushed and spoke through his gasps for air. He let Thickman’s cock throb and leave a layer of precum all over his face. He stuck his tongue out to tease it a little more while he lowered his pants and boxers.
Then he turned around and gripped the metal thing Thickman had been welding — was it a plow? It kind of looked like a plow, but Avery assumed that couldn’t be right. Why would any modern-day American human weld a plow? Weren’t they made in factories? In… presumably like Vietnam or something? Avery didn’t know. But he assumed they weren’t made by one middle-aged American with a welding torch in a college basement.
“What is this?” Avery finally asked as he jutted his ass back. It hit Thickman’s cock, and he rubbed it up and down — teasing him once more by making it difficult to aim for his hole.
“What is what? That’s my dick-“
“No, this… thing I’m leaning on,” Avery said. He rattled the plow-like collection of steel. “What is it?”
“Oh. It’s a sculpture,” he said. “It ain’t done.” He slipped the tip into Avery’s ass, then wrapped one arm around Avery’s neck to keep his head in position. His other hand brusquely spread Avery’s asscheeks.
“You- Shit, goddamn –” Avery took a deep breath, inhaling the sweaty funk of Professor Thickman’s elbow. “Goddamn, man.” He loosened his ass the best he could. “You’re a sculptor?”
“Shut up. It ain’t only white snobs who can be into art,” he said. He used his hips to mercilessly force more dick in. The nice thing about ramrodding men, he thought, was that they liked as much dick as possible, as hard as possible. Women loved gentle fucking, which annoyed Professor Thickman.
He liked to ram.
“I didn’t say that, I just… Ah shit…” Avery couldn’t even remember exactly what he had been trying to say. He didn’t care. He just held onto the sculpture for support as he accepted every inch of Thickman’s incredible cock.
His prostate sang with every thrust of Thickman’s hips. Once he got into it, Thickman thrusted with all his might, making Avery howl and scream. At first Avery tried to be quiet, but then he realized this entire basement was devoid of people, so he could be as loud as he wanted. He moaned out loud, the sound echoing in the industrial arts basement.
Thickman rammed into him hard, like it really took every muscle in his body to do it the way he wanted. He kept his workpants and wifebeater on the whole time. His balls slapped against the back of Avery’s ass, sending wave after wave of pleasure through his body.
But he wouldn’t let Avery know how good this felt. He tried to make it feel like he was doing a favor for Avery, grinding within him, finding his spongy prostate and ramming into it over and over. But Thickman couldn’t help but moan a little himself, his deep voice carrying and echoing through the empty space.
Finally he was done, and he let out a loud grunt as he smacked Avery’s cheeks, making them ripple around his cockshaft. He tightened the chokehold around Avery’s neck, just enough to make him struggle and clench Thickman’s manhood.
“Take it, almost done, don’t worry, I’s almost done, you got it, you got it, baby, you doin’ great,” Thickman said into Avery’s ear as he squirmed beneath his powerful body. The sculpture rattled beneath Avery.
Just as the first wad of cum hit Avery’s insides, Thickman snarled and grabbed his hands. He pulled Avery off the sculpture, and for a moment, Avery was falling — he had nothing to support himself on but Thickman’s arm wrapped around his neck. Avery gripped Thickman’s sweat-soaked bicep and squealed.
Cum sprayed into him. Avery had been jacking himself off until this moment, but now he panicked and let go of himself to claw at Thickman’s arm. Thickman’s dick felt so good inside him that it didn’t even matter, and Avery orgasmed anyway.
“Oh shit-“
“Ssssssshush, shut up, boy, I’m nuttin’ in ya. Don’t move.” Thickman gurgled throatily into Avery’s ear. Avery struggled to breathe and to remain upright, even though he could tell Thickman had a firm grip on him — Avery’s mind kept panicking, sure he would fall flat on his face any moment now.
But instead he just shot his own wad onto the floor, some of it hitting the sculpture, while he took the biggest load of his life in his ass. It was creamy and hot, seeping through his flesh and sinking into him. Thickman moaned right into Avery’s ear, deafeningly loud and raspy, a little moist because Thickman let out a few drops of drool too, wetting Avery’s face.
Finally he was done, and Thickman put Avery down on the floor. His dick popped out. Avery sighed. Thickman grunted and wiped sweat off his forehead. He waddled to his desk with his dick still jutting straight out through the fly of his workjeans. He wordlessly wiped his cock off with a clean rag.
“You good?” Thickman asked. He tucked his cock away in his jeans, then straightened up his wifebeater. It had been sweaty even before he started today, but now it was like a wet rag again. He knew he needed to bring a new one in so he wasn’t wearing this every day. Some of his students were beginning to make fun of him for smelling bad. And Avery’s comment about needing more deodorant had gotten to him.
But Avery never responded. Thickman chuckled. Sometimes, when he cornholed males, they were too overwhelmed by his massive dick to do anything afterwards but experience the majesty of it. Thickman went over to Avery, who was bent over in front of the sculpture.
“You okay, boy?”
Avery nodded. “I was just… I like your sculpture,” he said. “I can’t really think of why. But it’s very… well, not pretty, but it has a certain, I dunno, elegance to it. All of the joints are different.”
“Yeah.”
Now that he wasn’t getting cornholed, Avery could take a closer look at the sculpture. It was intensely complex, with different kinds of welded joints combining each piece of steel. Some of the steel was more polished than other steel. There was a pattern to it, something consistent in the seemingly haphazard collection of steel beams and rods.
It was a chaotic panoply of monochrome — all black — yet it seemed somehow more vibrant than it had any right to be. It was sturdy like a tool, solid like its sculptor, with a bewildering firmness like a mountain. But it had wiggled when Avery leaned on it, and now it gently swayed in the delicate breeze from the far-off industrial fan that kept this basement cool. It was a plow at heart — an old design, an ancient and functional workhorse that looked already as though it had been used in the fields — but it had the looping whorls, looming grandeur and shimmery sheen of modern space-age materials. Its curves echoed of timelessness, the past and the future leading together into a present that made this very moment feel like a lifetime.
Avery couldn’t look away from it, not until he smelled Professor Thickman’s nasty wifebeater coming closer to him. Then Avery looked up and smiled. “I like your sculpture.”
Thickman grunted. He didn’t take compliments well, especially about something like that. “Fine.” After a long pause, he stroked his mustache and said, “Cool. Thanks.” He added, “If Rayshawn calls you again, I will beat his ass.”
“Sounds hot. Can I watch?”
“I ain’t mean it like that,” Thickman said, his dour voice concealing the smile underneath his mustache.
“I know.” Avery stood. He hugged Thickman around the belly and nuzzled his stinky wifebeater. “Thanks for that. How about the next time Rayshawn calls me, I’ll come over to your place? I’ll make your apartment less sad, then you can stick me. I’ll tell Rayshawn to jack off and do his homework. No promises after that, I might hook up with Rayshawn later. But next time, I’ll give you another chance.”
“Okay.” He wiped his cock off with a paper towel.
Avery smiled and walked away. “I’ll see you soon,” he said.

(continue to Chapter Two)

You can download this as a free ebook!

Questions, comments, requests or if you want it in another file format, I’ll try to accommodate it, email me at mnmanmacker@proton.me

The Basketball Coach: Chapter 2

You can download this as a free ebook!

Questions, comments, requests or if you want it in another file format, I’ll try to accommodate it, email me at mnmanmacker@proton.me

(back to Chapter One)

CHAPTER TWO
Reginald

Avery had been messing with Professor Thickman for a few weeks, while campus quieted down for finals and in anticipation of winter break. He usually met him back at the industrial arts building again, but he also went to Thickman’s apartment a couple times. He had agreed not to mess with Rayshawn again, but it didn’t come up for awhile because Rayshawn had several girlfriends during that time.
When Rayshawn finally called him next, looking to blow a load one rainy Saturday morning, he groaned and complained of a hangover. “I don’t wanna see none of my bitches right now, I can’t handle that,” he said, his voice gurgly and rancid; you could tell his breath smelled awful even through the phone. “Come over. I need to get my nut off, and I don’t need no bitches prattlin’ on ’bout some stupid shit.”
Avery said, “Oooh, sorry, baby, your basketball coach asked me to stop seeing you, and I agreed-“
“What? Thickman? Is that what he was talkin’ about? That nosy asshole. He oughta mind his own goddamn business-“
“Hmmm, maybe, but… I agreed to do it.” Avery paused. It wasn’t clear it had sunk in to Rayshawn that Avery was saying no. People didn’t often tell Rayshawn no. Avery cleared his throat and repeated himself, “So I have to say no. I’m not going to come jack you off. You can jack yourself off.”
Rayshawn paused and grunted, his voice now awkward and creaky. He wasn’t used to having to beg for it. “Uh… c’mon, man… I won’t tell Thickman. I won’t. I promise, he don’t gotta know, I don’t tell that nigga nothin’. I’ll tell him you said no-“
“Sorry, Rayshawn,” Avery said. “He told me anytime I want a nut, I can go jack him off instead-“
Rayshawn scoffed. “That old nigga? Don’t he taste like mothballs?”
“He tastes marvelous,” Avery said. “Plus he does me in the butt. He doesn’t say it’s too gross. And he doesn’t text his girlfriends when I give him dome.”
Rayshawn seethed audibly through the phone. He didn’t have enough experience being nice to convince anyone of anything. His nostrils flared. “Man… Will you at least write that poem? You gotta do that. You already said you would.”
Avery sighed. “Oh my god, Rayshawn, it’s a twelve-line poem! Just let yourself feel something, and write some words about it. The only rule is you can’t do grammar and punctuation right. You can’t fail at writing a poem. If it takes you over thirty seconds, you’re doing it wrong.”
“I can!” he shouted into the phone, losing his temper and following that up with a barrage of insults and cursing. “You fuckin’ asshole! I can’t — I can’t — I have practice, man! I gotta lift weights and shit!”
“You’re hungover! You don’t have shit to do, you have a hangover-“
“Yeah! A hangover! I can’t write a poem with a hangover!”
“Most good poets are always hungover! It’s twelve lines, Rayshawn! You could have written three in the time it took you to whine to me about it! Just write about racism. If it’s about racism, she’ll always give you an A. That’s what I do,” Avery said.
“I don’t know nothin’ about racism… maaaaan,” Rayshawn said.
Avery paused. “Oh holy shit, you forgot my name, didn’t you?”
“Uh, no, it’s, uh… Jerry?”
“Jerry! JERRY?! You think I’m the kind of slack-jawed fuckwit who would be named Jerry?!” Avery hung up, but he kept muttering on autopilot as though Rayshawn could still hear him. “You’re such a useless shit, Jesus Christ, Rayshawn, get ahold of yourself. Too much pussy makes men dumb.”
But already he was kind of regretting hanging up the phone; Rayshawn might have been a self-absorbed moron, but he did have a tasty dick that got hard so very easily. Once his blood had stopped boiling, and he stopped smirking over Rayshawn’s insistence he couldn’t write a twelve-line poem, Avery really wanted to swing on his dick.
So Avery decided that today was a Professor Thickman day.
He had had about enough of Rayshawn anyway — he was expensive to see (Avery had kind of lied when he said he only ever gave Rayshawn twenty dollars — that was the only cash Avery had ever given him, but he often bought him a hamburger, or a shirt, or a gold chain, or sneakers, or a present to give his girlfriend of the moment, and that stuff added up). And Rayshawn was always a jerk. He farted on Avery’s bed once. He saw a picture of Avery’s mom and said “Who’s that fat old bitch?” He laughed at a blind man eating soup. He didn’t tip well, even with Avery’s money.
But that dick was so fucking craveable… It was all Avery could think about it until he got to Thickman’s neighborhood and had verified he was home.
“Rayshawn called you? That horny bastard,” Thickman said when he opened the door.
“I refused to write him a poem. He was furious. He had like two months to do it, and he doesn’t think he can,” Avery said as he came in. The apartment smelled like a bachelor — specifically, it smelled like a black bachelor, which Avery found alluring. There were scents of coconut butter and sweat and medicinal lotion and sweat-soaked underwear and takeout steak-and-cheese subs without the bun and farty drawers and wrinkled clothes that lived in a hamper and Febreze and unwashed bedsheets that stank of armpits. It was an alluring smell, even if it also made Avery wrinkle his nose.
Thickman did indeed live in a sad little apartment with a living room dominated by a bench press. The first time Avery had come over, Thickman had covered the weights up with a sheet because Avery had called him out on it when they first met, but he had stopped doing so eventually. The bench press was even a little moist today, like Thickman had been using it recently and his backsweat still clung to it. Thickman was shirtless when he opened the door. Avery tweaked his nipple as he walked in, and Thickman ignored it though it made his pecs twitch.
As usual, Avery first cleaned up Thickman’s apartment a little. Avery liked cleaning up after his men; there was something seductive about it. He wiped down the kitchen counter while Thickman looked at him, frustrated, wanting to get right to taking his dick out but not saying so because it would be rude. His broad chest gleamed with the remains of his post-workout shower.
A scowl overtook the wry smile on Thickman’s square jaw. He licked his teeth. “Rayshawn’s a fucking moron. You know he failed the fucking diversity thing?”
“What? He’s black, how can he fail at diversity?”
“Not that, it was a written test. Multiple-fucking-choice. It’s just a bunch of stupid-ass questions, like ‘are transgender people a part of the modern working environment?’ and shit like that, and he ain’t even pay no attention, just colored in the little bubbles like it don’t matter. He said he was gonna make you do it later-“
“Oh my god, that lazy fuck-“
“But I ain’t allowed to do that. It’s set by court order for athletes, on ‘ccount of that tennis team that looked at a waitress a buncha times. I gotta score it right away,” Thickman said. “So he failed. He failed this fucking idiot-class for idiot-athletes. All he had to do was, y’know, promise not do no holocausts, and he wanted to make you do it.”
“He couldn’t pay me enough to do a diversity test. His dick’s not that good,” Avery said with a snort. He finished clearing off the counter. “You’ve got clean dishes in the cabinet! You’re not eating out of the dishwasher? What progress! Hey, is that Chinese place downstairs any good? We should celebrate by eating-“
“Nah, it sucks. And we gotta hurry,” Thickman said. He looked down at his feet sheepishly. “I mean, I’ll cornhole you and shit, y’know, whatever. But I gotta run. It’s almost Christmas.” He shrugged.
“Oh yeah, cool. December’s really going quick this year. You got Christmas shopping to do?”
“Uh… Yeah. Sorta.” Thickman sounded like he was lying. He sighed dramatically. Avery realized something was wrong, but Thickman had said he was in a hurry, so Avery dropped to his knees right there in the kitchen. He stroked Thickman’s cock through his jeans. Thickman wrinkled his nose. “My girl dumped me.”
“Alice? I thought she already did-“
“Nah, for real this time. She dumped me hard,” Thickman said. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as his cock flopped out through the fly of his heavy-denim jeans. “She ain’t even gonna let me lick her pussy no more.” His dick was hefty and soft, jelly-like. Avery let it rub on his face and his nose, and then he flopped it over his lips, while Professor Thickman kept talking. “She been gettin’ mad salty on account of me not like… She don’t like me drinkin’ none, or goin’ to the gentleman’s club. I told her it ain’t no thing, it ain’t — there’s no hos there, it’s classy. It’s real classy. They don’t even show they snatch. Just tits.” He paused and looked down as though he had only now noticed his dick was out and Avery was flopping it over his face. Thickman frowned. “Why you always playin’ wit’ it?”
“Fine, fine, you are in a hurry, huh?” Avery said. Thickman usually enjoyed letting Avery play with his limp dick before and/or after he blew his wad. He had never said that, but he didn’t complain, and Avery had gotten the impression he liked it.
His cock finally disappeared into Avery’s mouth, and the moment it hit his tongue, Avery felt a powerful twitch as it perked up. Thickman threw his head back. His hands fluttered awkwardly at first, as they always did — women complained about his callused hands, so it always took until his dick was fully hard before Thickman could get back in the habit of really gripping onto Avery’s head and going to town on his throat.
Finally it was rock-hard. Avery rammed his own head down as deep as he could go, until his throat closed and a little gag escaped from his chest. Thickman let out a throaty cluck and began rolling his hips, gyrating slowly, humping the back of Avery’s mouth.
His heavy jeans were still on, cock and balls protruding from the fly. They were his workpants, brown spots from wood-stain, pale spots from bleach and an area over the left calf where the fabric was oddly smooth and stiff, due to a spill of some kind of industrial solvent last year.
Precum’s salty taste flooded Avery’s senses as he slurped on Thickman’s cocktip. Thickman let out a little groan that made Avery giggle — it sounded a lot like Rayshawn groaning; Thickman could almost be his uncle. Avery’s hands roamed up to Thickman’s chest, kneading his firm flesh and making his pecs flex again and again.

Then Thickman received a text message. His phone beeped, and he growled with hostility. He grabbed the phone from the counter and looked at it, then he groaned in annoyance this time. He was again ignoring his dick in Avery’s mouth.


“Aw, shit, my sister is bringin’ her husband. Can’t stand that uppity asshole,” he said. He sounded depressive about that. He bit his lip and let out an overly dramatic sigh. “My brother-in-law on my sister’s side are gonna be so fucking bitchy. Every time I’m single, she and him are a bunch of assholes about it, like givin’ me pamphlets on suicide and sayin’ crap, like if I ain’t talk so much shit about Asian people maybe I’d have a girlfriend-“
“You got beef with Asian people?” Avery asked, thwapping his face with Thickman’s shaft.
“Nothin’! I just told ’em ain’t nevuh been one on my basketball team,” Thickman said. “They said that was racist. I was like, if you want Asian dudes to play basketball, you go teach ’em. But they ain’t wanna do that, they too busy calling stuff racist on Facebook.”
Avery rolled his eyes. “They sound like jackasses.”
“Yeah. I hate them. When my mom dies, I’ll prolly never talk to my sister again,” he said. He grumbled and closed his eyes. “Now quit makin’ me think about my family, or I ain’t nevuh gonna nut.” He grabbed Avery’s head and plowed in, his cock sliding down Avery’s throat until Avery’s nose nuzzled his pubic hair.
The taste of his cock — much cleaner this time, with a faint cocoa-scented soap scent — flooded Avery’s senses. He gurgled on it loudly, deeply, sucking up his own spit when it dripped in clumps out of his mouth. Professor Thickman threw his head back and grunted. His orgasm was so loud and animated it looked almost painful.
Cum sprayed over Avery’s tongue, great creamy gobs of it that coated his throat. He suckled on it loudly, ignoring his own lungs crying out for oxygen. It ran down Avery’s chin and Thickman’s shaft, the pale white color contrasting with the deep loamy brown of his skin.
His cheeks turning red, Avery slurped on the intensely flavored jism, making Thickman’s whole body shake with pleasure. His cock was still going, still leaking long jets of cum into Avery’s mouth, which couldn’t contain it all. Big clots of it spilled out and onto the floor of Thickman’s kitchen.
If I don’t clean that, it’ll still be here congealing next time I come… Avery thought with an internal laugh. He kept going, even as Thickman twitched and twisted with every brust of over-sensitive pleasure emanating from his cocktip.
“Aw, shit…” Thickman at last pulled out, his dick flopping over Avery’s face. He chuckled. “Aw… You oughta come wit’ me today, man. You could swallow my dick whenever I get annoyed with ’em. You could get all bitchy wit’ my sister, you’re good at bitchin’.” He chuckled at his joke.
“Okay.” Avery said. Then he looked up at Thickman to see if he was kidding or not.
He was.
Thickman chuckled. “Shit… You could really do your bitchy thing to my in-laws and my sister-“
“Oh my god, yes! That’s such a good idea!” Avery clapped his hands. He already had a paper towel in hand and was cleaning up the cum that had dripped onto Thickman’s kitchen floor. “I’ll come to your Christmas thing. How bitchy do you want me to be? Scale of one to ten.”
“Uh… Like a six. Thanks, man.”
“You never need to thank me for acting bitchy. It’s in my blood,” Avery said. “Am I dressed okay?”
“You’re fine for my mom’s place,” Thickman said. He grabbed a button-down shirt and put it on. It was plain and cheap, and it made him look like he was on his way to a court date, but Avery didn’t say that. He was excited about meeting Thickman’s family — he never got to be a real part of the lives of the men he messed around with.
“How far away is your mom’s house?”
“Just the other side of town.” Thickman cleared his throat. “There is one other thing.”
“Oh?”
“It ain’t Christmas. It’s Kwanzaa. Technically Kwanzaa don’t start for a couple days, but my fucking idiot bitch sister is taking her idiot bitch husband to Ghana for Kwanzaa — after borrowing money from me this summer for rent, she can suddenly afford to go to Ghana. So we doin’ it early this year.”
“You celebrate Kwanzaa?”
“My mom does,” he said. He snorted and looked away. “And my sister. And yeah, me too.”
“I didn’t know anyone actually did that. I thought Kwanzaa was a joke.”
“My mom loves explaining Kwanzaa to white people. Just be interested in it,” he said. He put his shoes on.
“Okay. What is Kwanzaa?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“No, I was asking you — I just didn’t want to look ignorant-“
“Yeah, say shit like that to my mom. She eats that up,” Thickman said. He put his keys in his pocket and headed for the door. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Avery had to hurry after him; he was still cleaning up the cum on the floor and on his chin, when he hurried out of the apartment. Thickman was often like that, rushing, ignoring that Avery wasn’t keeping up with him. Avery rushed out the door.
Thickman kept on muttering to himself as he led Avery out of the building. “Kwanzaa is so fuckin’ stupid….”
“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad.”
Professor Thickman’s family Kwanzaa celebration was at his mother’s ramshackle old house on the outskirts of town. Given its location, it was probably worth a lot of money — the property alone was valuable. But the house was rundown and in dire need of repairs.
But it was a nice, homey kind of home. Avery squealed with delight at the decorations; he had always been good at getting on parents’ good sides. Everything was red, black and green, and candles filled the home with light — and heat. “Oh my god, your home is so beautiful!” he said. He smiled. “I’ve heard Kwanzaa lasts eight days like Hannukah, isn’t that right, ma’am?”
“Oh call me Vera, sweetie,” Vera Thickman said. She was nearly seventy, her hair frazzled and white, her face saggy but sweet. She smiled at Avery. “No, dear, Kwanzaa only lasts seven days. But every day has a different theme. Today is the first day of Kwanzaa, so the theme is unity. Or rather, it’s not the first day of Kwanzaa, but we’re pretending it is,” she said.
Before Avery could say anything else, the rest of the family showed up. Thickman’s sister Marybeth, her husband Jake and their three kids. Avery smiled and greeted them as Marybeth looked at him like he had done something wrong, She looked just as bitchy as her brother had described her — you could just imagine her wrinkling her nose at every little thing, demanding her spineless husband scold waiters, no doubt complaining when the kids touched anything that hadn’t been disinfected.
They made small talk, and Thickman was glad that Avery was outgoing and friendly and dominated the conversation. Thickman never really felt that comfortable around his family, especially his sister. She had always been a striving bitch.
Since Avery was the one who talked about the holiday, the weather, the decor, the dog, the kitchen, etc, Thickman stopped paying attention entirely. That meant his mind wandered, and there was one place his mind always wandered when he let it out: women.
Specifically, one woman he had met last night. He got her number at the bar, but he hadn’t called her yet. She had seemed hot to trot, and she wasn’t the most beautiful woman, but she was available and she was confident he was going to get in her pussy sooner or later.
Not tonight though. He had to sit here with his hardon imprisoned by his jeans — the nicest pair he owned, though now he wished he had bought some new pants — not jeans, slacks — so he would be dressed as well as his brother-in-law, Jake. Or at least almost as well.
But Jake wore a pink tie and skinny slacks like a hipster. They almost looked like a woman’s pantsuit, Thickman thought. He strongly disliked his brother-in-law.
“How’s your team’s record this year, Reginald?” Jake asked.
Thickman — he hated being called Reginald, except by his mother — glowered and said, “Fine. We goin’ to the playoffs, sure as shit-“
“Language!”
“Sorry mama,” Thickman said. He just wanted to get Avery away from his family to get his nut off again. That would make this family get-together a lot more tolerable.
He realized with a start that that wasn’t entirely true — it was true, sort of, but the part of this that he was really enjoying was Avery’s company. Avery’s mouth would be a little bonus.
It had been a long time since Reginald Thickman had enjoyed someone’s company. His girlfriends had long annoyed him. His players were a bunch of mouthy punks. He didn’t trust any of his coworkers. His students were morons. His family spent most of their time borrowing money from him and bitching about his lack of enthusiasm for Afrocentric scrapbooking.
Avery didn’t really want anything from him, except sex, which he was glad to give. He had genuinely enjoyed Avery’s company. Avery didn’t even ask for anything in exchange for coming here today — Thickman’s last girlfriend wouldn’t even do that. She wouldn’t do anything he wanted without making a big ordeal out of it. She treated visiting his mom as just as much a favor as sucking his dick on his birthday.
When they managed to get away for a few minutes later on — while attention was focused on the kids and some ceremony involving corn and candles — Thickman pulled his pants down and let Avery go to town on him. He was in his old bedroom. It felt like old times; he’d been sucked off here by his girlfriends some thirty years ago.
I wonder why girls don’t suck as much dick as they used. Cuz I’m older? Do girls not suck dick anymore? When they had argued when they first met, Avery had said that, when Thickman reached middle-age, girls started seeing his muscles as less sexy and more gross, creepy not handsome, dirty and callused and stinky, not alluring or arousing. Thickman had never realized that.
But it was true. The same muscles that got him laid when he was Avery’s age now made him seem like some undateable man-boy. So he flexed his biceps, standing there with a dour look on his face as though he was annoyed by Avery hanging off his muscles and licking the sweat off his rock-hard biceps.
“Hmmm, your muscles taste so good…” Avery murmured, his mouth moving down to Thickman’s armpit. His bare chest muscles rippled. Thickman’s teenage-bedroom still smelled like a young man, Avery thought, like it hadn’t been cleaned in decades. There were boxes of stuff he had deposited here over the years and never got back — old paperwork, a box of tee shirts, a couple weightlifting trophies, a scrapbook of high-school basketball team — his mom made scrapbooks, and Thickman tried very hard to look interested; he didn’t have the gene that made it possible to have any interest in a scrapbook. He was simply incapable of it. So he kept the scrapbooks she made for him here; that way she knew and appreciated that he hadn’t thrown them away, but they didn’t take up space in his apartment.
Thickman sighed. He wanted to thank Avery for helping him out with this, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t often talk about his feelings. He wanted to say that this was his way of saying thanks, but Avery, he thought, would just get snippy about it again like he had before. Thickman did want it as much as Avery wanted to give it, so he couldn’t really call it a gift by any means.
But he was pretty sure Avery got the appreciation he felt but couldn’t say. Avery smiled as Thickman’s cock again popped out of his fly and disappeared thickly down his throat. Avery gurgled on the warm, sunny taste as it thickened up. His smiled turned to a smirk when Thickman shushed him. His family was far from the bathroom, and the children were being loud, so it wasn’t necessary to be all that quiet. Avery made a loud smacking noise with his lips until Thickman scowled at him.
“Shush, man, my sister is nosy as hell. She love eavesdroppin’, gettin’ the shit on people,” Thickman said softly. He threw his head back and suppressed a moan. His cock was rapidly hardening now. The fact that he couldn’t make any noise somehow made the sensations even more intense. He wanted to tell Avery a story — his sister had once gotten her boss fired simply by listening at his office door every day until she found some dirt on him — but the feelings were too intense.
All he could think about was the pangs of pleasure exploding in his dick, which oozed gooey precum into Avery’s mouth. Avery let out an uncontrollable moan of desire.
“Hmmmm… You taste even better in this room,” Avery said. He blushed and giggled quietly, as Thickman shot him another harsh be-quiet look. He resumed deep-throating, his nose burying itself in Thickman’s crotch. A shiver of bliss shot up Thickman’s spine, and his chest muscles rippled. He grunted and groaned.
He was about to say something when he orgasmed. A grunt escaped from his mouth as the first few drops of cum flew into Avery’s mouth. The sour, salty and sweet taste of semen flooded Avery’s senses.
Then came more, and Thickman grimaced as though it hurt to not make any noise. Great big wads coated Avery’s mouth, more quickly than he could swallow, so a lot of it slipped out past his lips and plopped onto the carpet of Thickman’s old bedroom.
Still more came out, as Thickman leaned back to grab his shirt — he was already getting ready to go back out there, even as his cock kept cumming and his orgasm kept flowing through his veins. His whole body twitched with his shirt in hand.
“Shuuuuussssssh…” he said, though Avery hadn’t made any noise.
Then Thickman shot the last of his load down Avery’s throat and let out a long, chest-rattling sigh. That had been louder than any part of the blowjob, Avery thought but didn’t say. He stroked Thickman’s heavy balls as he drained every last drop of cum out of his shaft.
“Thanks a lot, man.”
“Aw, shucks,” Avery said, wiping lips off. “Thanks for inviting me. And Merry Kwanzaa.”
“You supposed to say ‘Joyous Kwanzaa’,” Thickman said as he tucked his dick away into his workpants. He definitely resolved to buy new pants before he saw his brother-in-law the next time though. Next time would be his sister’s birthday; it would be next month, at her house, and she was definitely going to ask him to wear “a nice pair of paints” as though he was an idiot for not doing that every day. He should have done it a few days ago so he could wear the new pants today and not have to endure her bitching about it later.
They went back out then to wash up for dinner. Thickman was glad to be here for the first time in a long time. He wasn’t just eager to finish eating and leave. Since the focus was on Avery, he could just eat and enjoy his mother’s cooking like he hadn’t really had a chance to do for a long time.
“So, Reginald, how’s that women’s studies program?”
“Huh?” Thickman grunted, a few bits of chicken falling from his mouth.
“Your college? They have that new women’s studies professor?” Marybeth sighed overly dramatically. “It was on Facebook. You know, I really think you could show a little more interest in women’s issues.”
Avery broke in with a polite smile. “Oh, Reginald is very interested — we don’t like to ghettoize women and force them into women’s studies departments. All subjects are women’s studies in a way, don’t you think?” Avery smiled. “So Reginald prefers not to otherize women in that way. He would rather integrate women into regular educations. Plus I think there’s some transgender issues around having ‘women’s issues’. I mean, what are women’s issues, really?
Vera nodded her wizened old head. “So true, so true…” She did look confused though — she didn’t know what transgender meant, but she responded to the seemingly feminist bent to Avery’s words.
Marybeth looked like her head might explode. Nobody had ever challenged her in terms of political correctness at a family event. She glanced at her pasty-white husband as though he might support her, but he was focused on the green beans he had described as fabulous.
Avery smiled sweetly. “So me and Reginald have insisted on the college ensuring that women have equal access to his industrial development courses, and we personally designed all-new letterheads that refer to the Foreperson Training course, not Foreman,” Avery said. “We were going to launch a recruitment program this summer, but then Mr. Moneybags over here had to help a friend with some sort of trip to Ghana. I just hope they’re paying their carbon offsets for that little trip!”
“Hmmmm… Hmm-hm.” Marybeth gritted her teeth and looked down at her food, which she had only barely touched. When she thought Avery wasn’t looking at her anymore, she looked right at him with hate in her eyes.
Vera cleared her throat and looked at her son, who barely concealed his grin as he shoveled food in his face. “How is your art going, Reginald?”
“Aw, mama…” Reginald bit his lip.
“Like he knows anything about art,” Marybeth said with a snort.
“He’s made this amazing sculpture,” Avery said. “It’s black, and it’s got a wonderful shape to it. Thick, solid, very nice.” He looked at Thickman who snorted back laughter. “It makes me think about industry, you know, it makes me feel productivity — isn’t that weird? It’s like economics taken form, but it’s black too, it’s a symbol for our racial coding of work. It’s quite complex, Marybeth, but you sound like an expert on that sort of thing. Are you an artist?”
“I’ve self-published several books of poetry,” she said. “They’re about the patriarchy.” She hesitated like she couldn’t think of any details to add. “And, uh… the, uh… way we respond to… it.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! I think it’s great to have projects to work on without regard for accolades,” Avery said. “Reginald is going to submit his sculpture to the Modern Art Expo this spring. But there’s something really fulfilling about doing art that’s just for you, you know?”
“My poems are about the patriarchy,” she said. She gritted her teeth, still flustered. “Uh… taking it down.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that doesn’t apply to those kind of poems. There’s no point in writing about taking down the patriarchy if no one ever sees it, since you can’t take it down alone,” Avery said. “I’m sorry, that was dismissive of your work! I apologize so much! I’m sure your poems have an audience, of course! They’re probably an inspiration for plenty of young girls, huh? I bet you get tons of teenage girls reading it. They love self-published poetry.”
“Yes… Of course.” She glowered and frowned at him. She’d barely eaten a thing, she just spent the entire meal staring daggers at Avery.
“I read somewhere that most self-published books of poetry sell a couple thousand copies, you can actually make good money off it. Has that been your experience, Marybeth?” he asked. He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows.
Her teeth were gritted shut. She managed to murmur a yes and nod her head. Avery smirked at her as her brother got up to clear the table.
Avery pointedly ignored her staring daggers while they all finished clearing the table. He stood next to Thickman when they lit some candles and reminisced about old times after dinner. Vera explained the more Kwanzaa traditions, and Avery followed along in rapt attention.
“Thank you so much for exposing me to your diversity,” Avery said when the evening was finally over. “It was a lovely ceremony and a delicious meal!”
He stood there talking about it with Vera for what felt — to Thickman — like an hour. He didn’t know how people could do that. Polite people took like an hour to say goodbye, he thought, while he just stood there like a big dumb idiot, an overgrown teenage boy who still couldn’t have adult small-talk. Thickman glowered even as he hugged and kissed his mom goodbye. He told her he loved her.
Then at last, he and Avery left. Avery had a little plastic container of leftovers, which he clutched like a magical talisman as he got into Thickman’s truck.
“Your mom’s a real good cook,” Avery said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna eat the hell outta that macaroni and cheese when I get drunk later,” Avery said. Thickman backed out of the driveway, and a smile appeared on his face. Avery smiled back at him. “How was I? Just bitchy enough?
“That was awesome, man. She must be be so pissed. I bet she asks me for money for them carbon offsets,” Thickman said. “I ain’t payin’ either. I paid for that goddamn trip to Ghana, they can pay for the carbon offsets.”
“Why do you give her money anyway? She’s such a bitch.”
Thickman shrugged. “My mama would be pissed if I didn’t,” he said. “She thinks family gotta stick together.”
“She should tell your sister that.”
“Yeah.” Thickman cleared his throat. “Thanks for all that. Thanks for being nice to me.”
“Aw, shucks… You’re welcome. Can I play with your dick on the way home?”
“Yeah.” He grunted. “I’m serious though. Thanks for bein’ nice. Not a lotta people are really nice to me. Not like… nice. You know, they want me to do shit for ’em, like my sister got a protest every weekend she want me at, and my momma always want me over fixin’ shit or movin’ furniture, and my players always want me to let ’em outta practice and find ’em easier classes to take, and… You ain’t ask nothin’ from me.”
“Uh, that’s not true. I demand yards of cock! Yards! On demand!”
He chuckled. “Uh, so, like… You make me feel good. Not just my dick. But like… me.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “So thanks, Avery. Thanks a lot for bein’ nice.”

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