“Why don’t you go ahead and undress, big man? Lemme see what you’re working with,” Annie said with a blush and a giggle. Buck tore his clothes off, and his giant manhood unfurled. Annie stopped giggling, and she let out a groan of excitement. “Ooh, that’s nice and hefty.” She took a deep drink from her cup of creme de menthe.
“He heavy as hell, baby,” Lem said. “He’ll crush you. Lemme go first. I ain’t gonna break you apart.”
“Neither will I! I is real gentle, ma’am,” Buck said. He bent over and plowed his massive tongue all the way into her pussy. Lem dropped his briefs and raced to thwack his dick on Buck’s tongue, leaving a layer of precum dripping from his lip to her clit. “Get off me, Lem, that’s gross!”
“No fighting, boys,” Annie said. She let out a well-rehearsed moan, then patted Buck on the mullet. His hair was wet and smelled like the brothel’s shampoo. He looked up, face and beard moist with her pussyjuice, tongue still lapping at her womanhood. “C’mon up here, Buck, lemme see your dick.”From Buck the Roughneck
Category: Horseplay
Pull-ups
“I know it ain’t nevuh been cool to got cornrows lookin’ like graverows. Ya scalp look like the cemetery you ’bout to move into, Lem.”
“This is my space too!” Lem said. “I don’t wanna live in ya pigsty!” He licked his teeth as Buck resumed doing pullups. “Don’t get all sweaty neithuh. You stink at night.”
“You stink at night! You smell like asphalt, old man,” Buck said with a grin. He was getting good at these pullups. It was more like a gymnast on the parallel bars than a traditional pullup, and he could feel it working his shoulders and his thighs real good. “Asphalt and menthol cigarettes. Why you smoke menthols anyway? Taste like toothpaste.” He did another pullup, angling his hairy feet towards Lem, who dodged them and took a drag on his cigarette.
“Bullshit! You a redneck hillbilly mothahfuckah! You got so much hair! Why can’t you shave nothing?”
“Just makes it grow back thicker,” Buck said. His biceps strained to keep him parallel to the ceiling, his feet now above Lem’s head. Buck placed one foot on Lem’s cornrows. His scalp was palpable and smooth beneath the coarse rows of silver-and-black hair. “Old black men with cornrows look ridiculous, Lem, you know that, right?”
“Shut the fuck up. What do you know about black hair?” Lem glared at the foot resting on his scalp, but he didn’t push it off. Buck’s balls dangled between his legs in front of Lem’s face.
“I know it ain’t nevuh been cool to got cornrows lookin’ like graverows. Ya scalp look like the cemetery you ’bout to move into, Lem-” He put both feet on Lem’s shoulders.
With both of Buck’s feet on his shoulders, his cock and balls were right in front of Lem’s face. Lem didn’t complain because Buck’s heavy feet weighed him down, and he didn’t want to look like he was unable to handle that. “I ain’t — ain’t nothin’ wrong with cornrows on a man who got some years — I ain’t gotta justify myself to some knuckle-headed honky who look like he too trashy for the trailer park.”
“What’s that mean? I am from a trailer park-“
“Figures. Ain’t nothin’ worse than white trash-” Lem stopped because Buck had used his feet on Lem’s shoulders to pull him closer. Still dangling from the pull-up bar, Buck had his ankles on Lem’s shoulders, holding him in place as Buck humped the air to make his dick flop forward — he was trying to slap Lem on the head with his dong. Lem still didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of complaining about the weight on his shoulders.
“What’s so bad about trailer parks? I like mine. It’s called Smashwood,” Buck said. He got enough momentum to angle his body and angle Lem’s too, a little closer, and that was enough for his fatty pecker to land on Lem’s forehead.From Buck the Roughneck
Beach sauna
Dale and Poahi wore their togs under trousers, and Poahi wore leggings below that. They came to the beach in big puffy coats. It was, of course, deserted. Wind-swept waves battered the beach, and the sun beat down on the sand, adding bright light but not a mote of heat.
They brought tarps too. So did Keith and the other dudes in the 504 Crew. They arranged the tarps over the top and openings of the showerhouse on the beach, then they put lawnchairs in, turned on the hot water and rolled some joints. Heat from the hot water was trapped in the showers by the tarps. The heat reacted with the cold to create a billowing cloud of steam that stayed beneath the tarps.
So that was the annual beach sauna tradition. They sat in the heat, drank beer from an ice-filled cooler and smoked joints, had a real-man korero and, eventually, if they got drunk enough, they’d go for a brief swim before scurrying back into the warm sauna.
That was a tradition Poahi loved. He wished the others would quiet — it seemed meditative, Poahi thought. It should be meditative. The steam was relaxing. If this were a Maori tradition, it would have a spiritual side. People would be silent mostly, interrupting it with an occasional waiata. But Americans do not have a spiritual side, and they simply chatted and drank beer and dared each other to enter the freezing cold ocean.From Poahi the Lackey
The melon game
They was working they hardons in the melon game. That means they stand in a circle in the buff and stick they dick in a melon — supposed to be a gourd, but they ain’t easy to find — or sometimes a acorn squash. Each of ’em be hanging a gourd on they cock and the last one to keep it impaled on they stiffy wins, so whoever lose they stiffy get disqualified.
Malcolm stood there with his massive knob swinging free, the at-risk young men sneaking giggles at it. His pecker was wrinkled and well-worn, unlike their smooth rods, concealed right now by melons. Malcolm let his manhood flop between his thighs as he looked down on the lot of ’em. “This ain’t just horseplay, ya silly winkles. This goes back to Africa. It’s a tradition that’s gone down the line through ya ancestors. It’s important. It connects you with ya heritage,” he said. The young men all looked up at him, their slim little bodies gleaming with sweat in the overheated locker room. They was all snickering gigglepusses today, and they looked like frightened fringes in the dingy, cramped room — this was the locker and shower for the halfway home in the church basement. They could smell the iron-hard convicts who came through this place. It stank of mildew and men in here.
Footplay on rig
Lem walked up and down Buck’s body, almost slipping off a couple times cuz Buck was soaked in sweat. But Buck was hairy nuff upon his chest and shoulders that Lem got some traction.
All them rules applied on rig, and Mistah Chow did enforce ’em. He said he got to. He said it with a staccato accent so shrill it made bats explode and without distinguishing ‘tween his Rs and his Ls, but he enfolced it stlict-rike.
Buck sighed under Lem’s old-homeboy feet, which be kneading his belly-flesh. He was horny too. T’was why he worked out, it helped him get his stiffies down without women ’round. Now he smelled the stank of his own armpits and Lem’s feet, and that got his meat softening up. T’was hard to think of gals with that smell lingering in his nose.
Lem walked up and down Buck’s body, almost slipping off a couple times cuz Buck was soaked in sweat. But Buck was hairy nuff upon his chest and shoulders that Lem got some traction.
“They’ll be here, Lem, relax,” Buck said. He ain’t mind Lem’s knuckle-stacked old feet upon his belly and his chest. But it did stop him from doing more sit-ups.
“Indonesians is always late.” Lem exhaled a long plume of smoke. Then he flexed his bicep like he was intimidating invisible Indonesians. “Fuck ’em! Fuck that shit! They said eight o’clock.”
“A black feller got no business goin’ aftuh anybody fer bein’ late, Lem-“
“That don’t count! Nuh-uh!” Lem looked down at him. “Fuck you, Buckums!”