family values – Mansploitation

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter12

The White Trash Veteran

“Hey, Pops… was Mama a…?” Buck’s voice trailed off. “Was she like…?” He gulped. “A… nice lady?”
Goose put the truck in park. They done come over to a cathouse outsidea Martinsburg — Lipsweet, it was called. It wasn’t owned by the Gray Snakes, so Goose was gonna hafta pay. He could take Buck to a Gray Snakes bar and get him a free slut, but he admiredta hire Buck someone special. Buck just turned eigheen a couple weeks back, and Goose done come home. After rejoicing in togetherness, Goose took him to Lipsweet as a birthday present. Buck got that raga in him, and Goose could understand for sure. He was young once too. Just once.
They was laughing mosta the way from Smashwood. Goose done come home wearing old ratty jeans and a wifebeater, and his gray-spackled beard was raggedy, so Buck came in one of walking right past him at first — Goose looked like one the hobos who moped around the trailer park.
But Goose felt less like a hobo than he had in a very long time.
“What do you mean?” Goose frowned at Buck.
“I heared… Lotta guys say, like…” Buck shrugged and looked down at his feet. He got a big jaw, big nose, big face and a broad pair of shoulders. Damn was Goose proud of him. He done growed into a mountain of man, and he got a hercules mullet. “Some guys got notions ’bout her.”
“If’n any fellers say one unkind word ’bout’cha mama, you best smack the stuffing outta ’em, Buck,” Goose said. He done lost the smile he had the whole way here. “Nah, that ain’t ahimsa. Don’t hit ’em. But don’t tol’ate dirty words and unclean claims neither. She was a saint, toting heaps of metta,” Goose said. He paused to attend to his anapanasati, while Buck pondered and plumped and rolled his eyes at Goose’s orientalisms. “There ain’t no such thang as permanence to a soul, Buck, not yor’n and not her’n. She was not her actions, she was her wisdoms, quiet as they was. She wouldn’t nevuh do nuttin’ foul, nothing. She done e’rythang she could fer you. She nevuh had nuttin’ but love fer you. And fer me. And the world really, she was all love, Moses.”
Buck nodded. “Good. Thought so. I ain’t believe ’em…” That did sound like a lie, but it was one Goose was glad to hear. If there was anything worth lying about, this was it.
“C’mon, son,” Goose said.
He done arrange for Buck to come with him of a Wednesday night cuz Helena was working. Goose knewed her well. She was a plus-size lady of indeterminate race, she got ass that don’t quit and she got pussy that takes a big boy dick when the occasion do arise.
That was good, cuz Buck’s dick was almost as big as Goose’s. Maybe bigger. Goose don’t wanna measure. Buck was a taller than Goose anyhow — Buck was damn near seven feet tall.
Anyway, couple minutes later, Goose was curling his naked body round Helena’s side so he could watch his boy blow up her pussy. She be canoodling, begging for more, Helena know how to play the game. She got more prajna than she seemed.
The plan was for Buck to fuck her, then Goose. Then they’d drink, for which Goose’d hafta sneak likker for Buck, cuz the drinking age was twenty-one — that was new, nationwide. Buck was barely eighteen.
But in the end, Goose slipped out without even blowing his wad. He handed over the dollars he had to the pinkie-ring whomberry Mr. Gregarian, so’s Buck could spend the whole night with Helena. Buck was young, dumb and fulla cum for sure. He done watch Buck pour gallons of nut up her pussy, and it ain’t even slow him down. Ain’t slow her down neither. He barely lit a cigarette before his dick was hard again, and he splashed his knob into the jizz flooding outta her snatch. She was clawing at his back and begging for more, and not just cuzza the money. Goose could tell when a woman was fooling, and that whore was not fooling. She was needful for Buck’s dick.
So Goose let Buck spend the wad for tonight, so Buck could exercise his raga, Goose his dana and the hooker her rigpa. It felt good to restrain, and Goose liked seeing his boy growed up. He don’t need to satisfy his own lusts. He is the master of hisself.
Whenever he sees with insight the rise and fall of the aggregates, he is full of joy and happiness. Duck Fat said that, and he was one wise gook.
When Goose left, dropping his lobha into the nothingness of the universe, he kept only a couple dollars for a drink. He went outside to get a breath of fresh air and sacca, and he decided to leave without buying a single drink.
He went on down by to the police station. Precinct 17 was nigh. Goose done made hisself known there on a couple drunk in public charges, and he was told they gots a bucket trustee a couple weeks back.
His name was Hassle, and he was a dowdy chowder-white Nazi, complete with swastikas and German words tattooed on his muscle-bound body. Hassle said he only joined up with the Aryan Way cuz he gotto in the state pen, he don’t got him no dvesha. Goose dunno if that was true.
Anyway, Hassle was the bucket trustee at Precinct 17, and Goose had an in there with Officer Jackson. He was a squat sumbitch who knewed some of the same fellers Goose knewed in the Army. Jackson let him know about the bucket trustee.
A bucket trustee is a man hired by prison guards or cops to do shit like mop floors, redd toilets, etc. All the shit work they don’t wanna do. Or rather, that’s what a ‘trustee’ does. A ‘bucket trustee’ do all that plus slurp cop dingdong.
When a cop wanna get off, the bucket trustee gotsta do it. That’s why no self-respecting man would tale the position.
But Gose don’t mind taking advantage. None those hangups matter anyway. Reality is an illusion called maya, and devotion to it is the fundamental ignorance of moha. Hassle got moha in spades. Goose could see it in Hassle’s sunken eyes.
“Hey, Hassle, you up?” Goose said when Jackson let him into the jailhouse.
Hassle groaned. “Yep.” He stood there in his cell, next to the free weights he was lifting a minute ago. His pale skin gleamed with sweat. “Goose. No ass.”
Goose shrugged. “Fine. But you swallow, and you go deep.”
Hassle sat on the side of his bunk and motioned for Goose to come into the cell, which he did. “You stop when I tap you on the ass.” Hassle had a six-pack of beer waiting beside his bunk too. Goose eyed that with upadana eyes, but he tamped his thirst down. Sunyata was better than beer, sukha better than preya.
“Cops say you gotsta swallow,” Goose said with a grin. That part weren’t true. He heared a rumor the cops made Hassle swallow they cum. Ain’t nobody say nothing about Hassle swallowing nobody else’s. He just get fellers off, reckon. But Hassle seemed to accept that the Goose was transmitting the word of the policemen in the front of the precinct.
Pulling down his trouser-pants and drawers, Goose hefted his fat meat in hand. He fed it into Hassle’s mouth, then let his eyes roll back as his dick firmed up. Hassle done get plenty of dicks hard, and he knewed how to do it with a quickness and with upekkha. He slurped up and down Goose’s knob. He don’t shirky-dick it. He was methodical like a fucking pro.
In the Army, Goose got a blowjob once from a Turkish whore, and she sucked dick like that, like so good it was too quick and he barely felt it. Took like ninety seconds. Hassle was like her. Goose was older now, and he saw it coming, this weren’t his first time with Hassle. Goose’s first time he cum before he meant to, he was planning on sticking it up Hassle’s behind neverminding Hassle’s protestations.
But he got good at delaying it. He don’t wanna premature nut. That experience was burned into his alayavijnana — that’s the deepness of a man’s notions — and like everything that ever done happen, Lucent shooting himself in the face, Masterson and Berringer, Sam’s brains, Ellen, the river, Buck raising up like the everyday sun, all of it was in there. They was meanders and dams and oxbows, but Goose ain’t let none of it interfere. He experienced only the sensation of the moment.
When Goose felt an orgasm coming on strong, he pulled outta Hassle’s mouth like he was gonna finish hisself off with his hands. Hassle even got up to wipe his face off.
That meant his ass was turned round, so Goose ripped down Hassle’s workpants and drawers. He shoved Hassle off-balance and onto the floor on all fours.
“Hey-!”
Then, before Hassle could move, Goose mounted him and rammed his dick into his ass. The only lube was Hassle’s spit, but that was enough to get started. Maybe two inches of Goose’s dick slid in.
“Get off me!” Hassle roared. He bumped his head into the wall of his cell. Goose had a good grip on his shoulders though, and Hassle couldn’t get enough leverage to stand.
“Relax, relax, Jackson said I could,” Goose said. He forced his dick in with all his might. He grinned. Jackson did say Goose could, but ain’t nobody gonna come hold Hassle down. All three them — Goose, Jackson, Hassle — was the culmination of they vasana, which led them like fate to this conflict in this cell. There ain’t no use fighting over it. You gotsta just let it play out.
Easy for Goose to say, cuz he was on top.
“Owwww shit!”
When a burst of pain hit Hassle, he collapsed to the floor. Goose grabbed the bottle of lube Hassle kept beside his bunk, and he went down with Hassle, who screamed in pain. Hassle lay on his belly on the floor, and Goose pressed down atop him.
“Ow, fuck, Goose-!”
“Sssh, relax, lemme just put the tip in,” Goose said. He already got the tip in and then some, but he done hit resistance. He be plowing against it though, holding onto Hassle by the nape.
Goose smeared lube on his dick and stabbed again into the hole. This time it mostly went in, but Hassle yet wriggled and grunted in agony. A wave of pleasure made Goose’s chest ripple. Hassle’s chowder-white face turned red like a Indian, and he buckled and wriggled beneath Goose.
“Oww, shit, man, c’mon! Sheriff said I only gotsta take cop dick up behind!” Hassle said. He wrenched his head this way and that. “Ow, shit! C’mon!”
“I’ll be done in a sec, just a sec,” Goose said. He laid his face on Hassle’s back and pumped his hips at every angle he could find. It felt good as Goose hoped, Hassle was well-broke-in from all that policeman dingdong and who-knows-who-else. A tight intact booty was nice, but a soft and warm chute was good too. Hassle don’t got a no in his bones, so he could say it over and over like a tractor, but he couldn’t clench.
A shot of creamy jizz spurted into Hassle’s guts. A long flow of it went in, and Hassle groaned in disgust and pain. Goose shot a huge load, it just kept on filling up his guts and dripping down his fat buttcrack onto the cell floor.
A moan came from both men but with very different cadences. Goose’s hot breath condensed on Hassle’s shoulder muscles. More jizz spurted into Hassle’s tight ass, and Hassle grunted with each wad of cum to coat his guts. Hassle’s whole body shook beneath Goose.
Both men was still. Then Goose pistoned his hips, ramming it in deep to drain the last couple drops of nutjuice. Hassle grunted, his muscles and swastikas jostling up and down with Goose’s thrusts.
At last, Goose raised his chest off Hassle, and he let his cock slip out. “Sorry, Hassle,” he said. He ain’t sound sorry at all. He had no regrets. No fetters. He got only shrugs, as he calmly wiped his pecker clean, got his garb back on and debouched into one of the unlocked cells.
Despite Hassle’s dirty looks, Goose slept there in his own cell, letting the waves of night lull him to slumber, and in the morning, he left and roused his hungover son from his lady’s arms. The sun did shine, like a bowl of merriment, upon Goose’s brow and upon Buck’s dozey dome. With viriya in they step, them two went by shanks’ mare back to they trailer in Smashwood.
Goose was from there, so coming home to it was the best thing ever.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 4

The White Trash Veteran

Goose’s hair flowed free as a wave. He was plopping pretty atop his motorcycle, with li’l Buck clinging on behind him. The sun exploded into a horizon of oranges and yellows, as the motorcycle ate up asphalt and spat out sky. The engine was too loud to talk, but Goose heared Buck’s smile in his fingers clutching Goose’s torso. For now leastways, the both them done fling they worriment behind them — like that song says, let a worse-off man pick up that fig skin, for it is true, there always do be someone suffering more than you. They rode like cowboys, and both was content in that ever-lasting moment.
They made it on through to the campground just as the sun was setting, and they raced to get the tent up before it was dark. They ain’t quite make it, so they gotsta use flashlights to get they sleeping bags into the tent. Then they had just enough time to roast some weiners over an open fire. Buck be grinning like a puppy the whole time.
Goose got pockets fulla cash, greenbacks a-plenty, enough to buy that motorcyle. He been feeling centered enough to come back down to Martinsburg for a visit. Not to live. He could have a crash anytime, could get the bogey-logies, couldn’t let Buck see him how he was.
It was him and Buck’s first trip together. Buck was living with a foster family who owned a turnip farm. He said they worked him hard. He was strong as bourbon cuz the farmwork stretched him tall for his age. Goose beamed proud. Struggle do strengthen a boy, and Buck gots long expectations to fulfill.
The smell of roasting weiners lingered in Goose’s nose as him and Buck finished they supper. When the scent of meat done diminute enough, it was replaced by the bitter and intense aroma of burning wood.
But not just any burning wood. The scent was green wood. Some other family at some other campsite done light a fire with it. Prolly cuz they don’t know no better. Some people is damn fools.
In Vietnam, all wood is wet. Everything is wet in Vietnam. Ain’t nothing there burn without a cloud of steam. Whole damn country is steamy as kisses from a fat lady. But Vietnam don’t got no fat ladies, so how’d that happen?!
The burning green wood launched a catalogue of smells at Goose.
First, the acrid scent of gunpowder filled his nose. That was followed by a burst of coppery blood with the spicy aroma of a Vietnamey feller’s body odor. The gunpowder smell mixed with the burning green wood of the campfire Goose’s squad done cook they supper on. Harley did the cooking of that night.
Harley’s sweat smelled stinkhoggen and pounding in Goose’s nostrils, strong with the rhythm of his fluttery heart. The scent of Harley’s gun was potent too, bitter steel, clammy and reeking of unwashed flesh, which stuck to it cuz he only held it when afreared enough to sweat. For some reason, the gunpowder aroma of Goose’s own gun ain’t hit his nose hard — like his own armpits, he couldn’t smell the stink of it. He could damn well smell Harley’s though. Harley musta sweated through his shirt again, and Goose could smell the rankness of the Vietnameys surrounding him too. Burning plastic and skanky rodent fur filled out Goose’s nostrils.
Goose’s nose stayed stuck in Vietnam, but his eyes trained like snipers on Buck in the darkened here and the shadowy now.
Goose wanna take a shower. Maybe, he thought, that’d reset his nose. But Buck was too tired for a shower, and anyway the shower situation was a problem — there was a showerhouse for adult men and one for women and families. Goose couldn’t take Buck into that showerhouse, nor the other one. The campground people never figgered there might could be a shirt-tail boy with an adult man and no females.
No matter, they was only gonna be here till Sunday morning. Ain’t nothing wrong with a boy skipping a shower.
The Vietnameys used old dirty rope that smelled like a stack of cardboard boxes rotting in the rain. That was how they tied up they prisoners of war. They stinking bodies and breath assaulted Goose’s nose. They ate spices, the Vietnameys did, bunchesa spices, and Goose smelled it on them. The Vietcong uniform had a characteristic smell too, an unclean-laundry gookiness, and it either growed stronger as the war dillydallied onward or Goose’s nose got accustomed to seeking it out more the longer he was kept captive.
The muddy bootprints the Vietnameys left afronta Goose and Harley got the odor of rotting drawers. The smell of American tears was salty-strong, or maybe that was Vietnameys’s tears, cuz somea they own kept getting they bits blown up in a copper-scented mist. Goose preferred to only smell the American tears though.
Goose had gotta shower tonight. He was gonna be funky as a black boy if he ain’t redd up. He ain’t smell it, either cuz he couldn’t smell his own funk or cuz his nose was back in Vietnam, but he knewed he needed a shower.
When Buck was sleepy-deeping, his belly fulla sausages and cookies, Goose left him in the tent. He strolled over into the showerhouse wearing his boxers and carrying with him his ditty bag. He ain’t wanna dawdle, so he hurried to rip them boxers off.
He took a sniff of his bar of soap, which smelled clean and medicinal, and that at last brung his nose outta Vietnam. That was good. He got no desire to smell the prisoner of war camp. They ain’t got toilets, just a bucket to share.
When Goose went into the shower proper he seed a pinkthumb numbnut, less than middle-aged but he got a old soul, you could tell. Goose knewed the type. He stood there like a dotless question mark when Goose walked in, then he blistered like he got a vendetta against Goose.
A discourteous nod passed between ’em. The man still was curling his lip at Goose though, and Goose stood past him. He was foul cuz he was, till moments ago, deep in the first worst day of his life.
The rumpety milkweed man rinsed shampoo outta his hair. When his face was clear, Goose catched sight of his face and reckonized him as this feller who done give him a dirty look before, when Goose came riding in. Goose wondered if he knewed somehow Goose was a ex-con.
Was he a prison guard? He don’t look familiar.
“You got a pro’lem?” Goose stood there in the shower-spray, letting it run down his body. He set his ditty bag on the floor outsidea the water, but he ain’t get his soap or shampoo or nothing outta there. He done learnt in prison to never bend over in the shower when there’s bad blood in the air. Clear the air first.
Or better yet, just don’t bend over.
“This is a nice campground,” said the man, looking quakey like he admiredta walk off. “We don’t want bikers here. It’s for families.”
Now Goose weren’t really a proper biker, not like a Hell’s Angel or nothing like that. He was just a motorcyclist at that time. But the pinkthumb was pissing him off, and Goose don’t wanna explain the particulars of biker gangs and motorcycle clubs. Goose scowled. “I ain’t a biker, I j’st rides me a motorcycle, yes I do. T’ain’t none’ya business. In ar’y case, I’s he’uh wit’ mah son. We a family. You a slim slice of tuhkey, sissy.”
The man frowned. “What? You talk like a hillbilly.”
“You is in West Virginney, yankee.”
“I’m from Iowa!” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want a fight-” He ignored Goose scoffing. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not, you know, like… a bootlegger.”
“A bootlegger?!” Goose guffawed. “You in West Virginney, hoss, not the past.”
“Well, I don’t know, any of the… crime, or the drugs, or the gun-running, I don’t know what bikers do,” the man said.
“I ain’t a biker!” Goose shouted.
“That wasn’t a station wagon you rode in on!” The man shouted with such vitupery he dropped his soap. Then he turned around to pick it up off the ground from the river of shower water that ran on down to the drain.
With a cackling laugh, Goose darted from one showerhead to the other and rammed at his ass. His dick was soft, so all he did was wipe it up through the man’s buttcrack, which was moist and hot and sudsy.
The man yelped and stood up. He looked put upon and also shocked by the size of Goose’s cock. Apparently he ain’t look down till this very moment.
Goose got no plan on doing more than that, but the sensation of the man’s asscrack rubbing on his dick reminded him of dirty nights in prison. Goose be plussing. The dowdy pinkthumb in the showerhouse was putting out forlorn, like he ain’t never heared of cornholing. Most likely the case. He don’t look like a ex-con, he ain’t a Navy man for sure and he don’t seem like he spend time with black fellers.
“Get off me, what… what was that? You’re disgusting. Did you just try to…” He dropped to a whisper. “… pee in my butt?”
That made Goose guffaw like a goose. “What the fuck? T’ain’t a thang, hoss. Don’t nobody pee in no butt.” Goose got his pecker in his hand, stroking it hard and wondering if it was possible to pee inside somebody’s butt. Never occurred to him. You’d hafta be hard when you stick it in, then after you cum, leave it in.
Would it spill? Seemed chancy to keep it from spilling.
Goose don’t wanna try it, but he’d like to see a colored boy do it. They can do all kinda things with they peckers. They could prolly figger it out.
Anyway, as Goose pondered that notion, he got his wingwang hard, and the man either ain’t notice or ain’t pick up what Goose was putting down. He was done with his shower even, but he don’t leave. Foolish hawkeye! Naive as a ear of corn!
“Do you go to church?” the man asked.
“Sh’ore do,” Goose said. But before the man could ask any more of his rumpety questions, Goose grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him face first into the grimy wall of the showerhouse.
“Ow!” That knocked his bar of soap outta his hand once more.
The man ain’t acknowledge Goose’s hardon. He prolly come from a world of class, where men don’t have hardons in showers and where it’s okay to bend over afronta man with a pecker. Sounds like a nice world. Guess he was still on the pee-in-the-butt thing and assumpted Goose’s hardon would stop him from doing it again.
When the man was bent over, his ass high in the air, Goose went for it — he rammed hard into the pinkthumb’s pink behind, gripping them asscheeks to keep him in position.
“Oooooowwww!” the man yelped. Only the tippa Goose’s dick went in, but that was enough to make the hawkeye bug out and wriggle. Goose slapped his ass like a rodeo cowboy.
“Yee-haw, mothahfuckah!” Goose called out. The man’s knees buckled in pain, and Goose rode him to the nasty shower floor, sinking his heft atop the poor sucker.
Goose forced it in deeper, a thrill of pleasure rocking up his body. He do love breaking down a intact man’s intactness. He gotsta struggle to force every inch in, but the struggle made it feel good.
He rammed back and forth as the man howled in pain. Goose used all his body weight to slam down on the man’s backside, forcing his dick in and intense pleasure out. He moaned into the man’s ear and made him lick the shower drain, just cuz it got him gagging, which made his booty tighten up in agony all over again.
A burst of cum shot up the man’s guts. Goose spurted out a huge long flow of it, and Goose got the impression the dumbass man only now realized what that huge hot thang was in his asshole. He sobbed onto the shower floor.
A grunt came outta Goose with each thrust of his body and was accompanied by a jerk of pain from the pinkthumb. Goose shot a huge wad that coated his guts, then he slowly let the sissy-shithead clench his ass and force Goose’s cock out, inch by veiny inch.
“Don’chu talk to me again, pansy. Walk off, and walk off good,” Goose said with a chuckle as he rinsed his pecker off in the shower water. He spat on the man’s bawling face and walked out of the showerhouse, towel in hand. He didn’t even dry off until he was out in the moonlit night.
That felt good, and Goose was gladsome to have got a nut off this weekend. This would be his only chance, since he was gonna be with Buck the whole time. He don’t get a lotta time with his son, so he wanna make the mosta it, and he don’t need no hardon slowing him down.
And maybe, he thought, it would keep the pesky past at bay.